


Call of the Sea & the Ship Kings

by Jess_S



Series: Elda Kundu Kurutar [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Minor Character Death, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-03 02:09:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4082659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jess_S/pseuds/Jess_S
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Recap of the story, thus far: Harry’s faith in mankind was restored by his friendship with a mortal king, but he then had to experience the painful finality of losing a very good friend to the gift of mortality. Living among humans helped him remember what it was like to be young and human a little more, but watching mortals age also forced him to understand why the Elves choose to keep their distance more often than not.<br/>Now, after 572 years in Middle Earth, wading through adventures as violent as outright war and as momentous as marriage, Harry finds himself torn by the simple fact that the only thing calling him back to Earth and the people he knew there is the sense of duty he owes his destiny; but beyond that, he has no desire to ever leave Arda…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Call of the Sea & the Ship Kings

**Author's Note:**

> Dedication: To everyone who was kind enough to review the previous parts!

**_Elda Kundu, Kurutar_ **

A Harry Potter/Lord of the Rings Crossover

**Call of the Sea & the Ship Kings — Part 1**

By Jess S

 

~ * **_Hobbiton, the Shire,_**

**_Narquelië_** ** _5 th, 670 T.A. _*** ~

 

“You have our thanks, Mayor Boffin,” Harry gave as deep a bow as Celeborn’s upbringing would allow him to, smiling warmly at the helpful little hobbit. “And please extend them, as well, to the Thain.”

 

The Mayor of Hobbiton shook his head, smiling back widely. “We are simple folk, Sir Hadrian, but we hobbits remember our debts. You and Lady Raina have taken care of us for more time than I’ve been breathing. An’ we well remember the tales of how you first came to be amongst us before that. This is nothing when compared to all of that.”

 

Harry frowned, shaking his head slightly. “I’m afraid you may be underestimating Gondor’s king, my friend. He has proved to be his father’s son, and will likely not accept anything out-of-hand.”

 

“Aye, I’m aware, Sir Hadrian. And I’m looking forward to it.” The little mayor’s already wide grin somehow widened even further as he noted Harry’s skepticism. “Bein’ mayor in the Shire’s hardly ever any real work, milord. Worse I can expect ta hav’ta handle most days is the river risin’ a little high and floodin’ some fields or roads. The Took would tell you much the same of the Thainship these days, I think. It’s thanks to you, I’ve been told, that Orcs an’ their like don’t bother us, and I appreciate that.” He shrugged, “But it don’t keep me from longin’ for a little bit a change every now and again.”

 

Harry laughed, shaking his head. “Which is usually when you stop by for tea and a meal?”

 

“Right you are!” the hobbit agreed, grinning again, until another a sigh came out. “I’ll be missin’ those teatimes, you know.”

 

Harry smiled softly. “As will we, but I’m afraid that when my parents insist on anything, it’s best to oblige them.”

 

“I’m sure of that, and proud of ya they must be.” He shrugged, “Won’t keep this hobbit from missin’ ya, though. Guess I’ll hav’ta make do with tellin’ the tales I was told in my youth to the little ones, then watching them play ‘em out in their games.”

 

Harry nodded, smiling as the words drew up memories of afternoons where they’d done just that together, Ránewen and/or the brothers Míriel usually with them.

 

The Shire’s society was very orderly, despite the fact that—when compared to most of Middle Earth’s other nations—very little thought or time was put into its organization and the maintenance thereof. The largest service available within its borders was the post, which was responsible for the delivery of mail amongst the Hobbit-folk; and important business, as hobbits loved gossip, but it was nonetheless made up entirely of volunteers. Truthfully, the Bounders organization wasn't much smaller, but the self-defense force that the Shire maintained was mostly in name only; and Valar willing, with the help of the wards Harry was leaving behind, that'd remain the case...

 

The only deliberately ordered parts of the government were the mayor that was elected every seven years, the very tiny police force and the slightly larger volunteer fire-brigade. The mayor was responsible for the police, the post, making sure the volunteer fire-fighters knew how to fight fires, and that was mostly it.

 

Each town’s ‘police force’ was very small, headed by a Sheriff, and was generally just responsible for rounding up stray livestock. And was really prepared for little else, as the only Sheriff in the Shire with an appointed lieutenant was the Sheriff of Hobbiton, and every other ‘officer’ therein was, like with the post, volunteers who offered what spare time they could to help out.

 

Oh, there was a bit more organization among the families, which were all interconnected in some fashion or another. And all were headed by the eldest of each line: the patriarch or matriarch, whichever the case may be at the time.

 

The head of the important Took clan was known as ‘the Thain,’ who had more actual authority than the elected mayors or sheriffs in most matters. Each Thain technically represent the Hobbits ‘absent’ king. And though the hobbits considered themselves subjects of the human king of Arnor—as it’d been one of the stipulations of their receiving permission to settle these lands—no king of man had ever set foot in any part of the Shire, and probably never would. As such, what clout each Thain might claim was decided on a generational basis: some Thains cared to become involved in the Shire’s politics, others didn’t. The ones that did involve themselves regularly, justifiably had much more influence to wield when they wanted to then the ones that had to be dragged out to head each Shire-moot.

 

That was each Thain’s principal purpose: they served as the head of the Shire-moots—on the rare occasions they met—and, at even rarer times, as captain of the Shire-muster and the Hobbitry-at-arms. The last two were only required in dire emergencies—such as when Harry had first come to the Shire’s aid decades before, saving the small folk from ravaging Orcs. And as such, the role really was ceremonial more than anything else. Even more so than the Bounders that, supposedly, were meant to 'keep the peace' within the Shire's hills.

 

Harry had encouraged the hobbits to maintain a more official body of defense, but their peaceful, quaint outlooks didn’t really allow most of them to pay much mind to such concerns. It had worried him, which was why he’d placed wards around the Shire to protect it even in his absence: sending most sentient beings who weren’t Hobbits away from the Shire: unless they had a real reason to be there. And eating Hobbits, which would be on the minds of most Orcs, wouldn’t ever be a reason for the wards to allow passage.  Perhaps it was an abuse of his powers, but Harry didn’t really think so. If the wizards back on Earth could so justify the use of such all-encompassing wards around Hogwarts and Diagon Alley on the premise of the witch burnings and such from centuries before, surely it wasn’t uncalled for to cast against monsters that wanted to eat the gentle folk of the Shire.

 

Another—mostly ceremonially—important Hobbit was the Master of Buckland, the head of the largest Hobbit clan at Bucklebury. His supposed authority was recognized throughout Buckland and into the Marish. Though, really, Harry hadn’t ever figured out what the Masters of Buckland’s duties—ceremonial or otherwise— _were_...

 

The Hobbits of the Shire did have laws. They called them ‘The Rules.’ But no one had ever needed to enforce them, from what Harry understood, because the only crimes that’d been committed by Hobbits in the Shire were usually misunderstandings that were resolved and put in the past as soon as they were realized. All Hobbits voluntarily obeyed The Rules, because all believed them to be both just and ancient. With this in mind, the existence of lawyers in the Shire had intrigued Harry; until he found out that the only things they generally dealt with were wills and the like; and even then they were mostly just writing them in flowery language that sounded good and proper, rather than necessarily arguing or enforcing anything.

 

There was no record of any major crime having ever been committed in the Shire. Though, there were also no records at all, really, that lasted more than a few decades, save for certificates of birth, wedding, and deaths, which every Hobbit family kept together to trace their long lineage. Really, how far back each Hobbit here could trace their ancestry put the so-called Pureblood wizards back on Earth to shame. Not that that was hard.

 

Those impressively long line of records had actually interested his father. Celeborn loved to learn anything and everything he could, so access to records of a sort of history that was so very different in so many ways from the recent history of the Elves that he’d experienced was a treasure to him. One well worth letting his son and daughter-in-law lived amongst a foreign folk for a time to learn it and bring it back to him.

 

It’d made the Shire a pleasantly picturesque place to live for a time, which was why it’d been where ‘Sir Hadrian’ and ‘Lady Raina’ had settled after he’d officially retired from Gondor’s service and wanted to put some distance between them and the curious king of the mortal men of that realm. It had worked, too. Many men—and Hobbits—had thought it odd, but it’d been accepted in time, and Turambar and Hadrian had maintained most of their friendship through correspondence and occasional visits to Osgiliath at royal requests.

 

After Turambar had died, his son—King Atanatar—had continued the correspondence. Initially, he’d contacted his father’s esteemed friend when he’d wanted unbiased advice on this or that, regarding him as a well of information and wisdom, despite the fact that ‘Hadrian’ had never claimed to be older than Turambar’s son, who’d been a full-grown adult when his grandfather fell and his father had set off to the East for war. Somehow, the fact that he was the old king's most trusted friend outweighed any supposed age.

 

In the three years since then, however, Atanatar had become accustom to almost exhausting the falcons still available for him to send to ‘Sir Hadrian,’ relying on him as an ‘unofficial’ advisor. When he’d requested several more falcons be trained and sent to Gondor’s capital, Harry had realized that it was time to disappear.

 

He knew that most of the people of Gondor that knew ‘Sir Hadrian’ still lived, logically assumed he was, at the very least, a Dúnedain, if not of at least of partial Elven descent. Still, the age he’d been giving the appearance of amongst Men these last few decades was very advanced, and as such, his death of natural causes shouldn’t come as a surprise.

 

But that wouldn’t work, either, because Harry and Ránewen couldn’t leave their bodies behind for the mortals. Thus the reason they’d turned to the Hobbits, who knew they had magic and such, for help.

 

Thoughts having turned back to the present, Harry shook his head slightly as he turned his attention back to his little friend. He wasn’t at all surprised to see that that Buffo Borfin either hadn’t noticed the wizard’s wandering thoughts—due to his own wandering—or he simply hadn’t cared to pay it mind. Either was possible, but Harry was pretty sure that Buffo’s mind was still stuck in one story or another that Harry and Ránewen had indulged him in over the years. [1]

 

“You shouldn’t have any troubles in the coming years, my friend,” Harry drew the hobbits attention back to him.

 

Buffo shook his head, still smiling—though there was sadness there, too, now. “No indeed. You’ve taken good care of us, milord.” He looked away then, his smile falling into a small frown. “May haps too good.”

 

Harry also frowned, “Pardon?”

 

Buffo shook his head, frown disappearing from his lips as quickly as it’d appeared, but Harry could still see it in his eyes. “Nothing, nothing. We can all do only the best we can, right?”

 

“Of course,” Harry nodded, but then persisted. “Something else troubles you, Buffo?”

 

The hobbit looked away from him, undoubtedly discomfited by his penetrating stare.

 

None of the hobbits knew that the son of Galadriel could read minds, not in so many words, but few had ever been able to feel comfortable looking him in the eye. Particularly not when he wanted answers of any kind from them. Perhaps they believed all elves and wizards could read minds. Perhaps many had just recognized that ‘Sir Hadrian’ perceived a great deal over the years.

 

But it was disconcerting to watch Buffo’s eyes dart away from his. The spirited—if slightly strange—little hobbit had always looked him straight in the eye, be it when he was begging for tales of adventure and shows of magic in his youth, or drawing those same tales out more tranquilly over tea as he aged.

 

“Buffo?”

 

“No one talks of why we came here anymore,” the Halfling answer after a moment. “All of ‘em just pretend we’ve always been here. Like we sprung from this dirt like the trees in the forest yonder. No one admits those trees weren’t much shorter than they are now when we came here.”

 

Harry blinked, but didn’t raise a question, not wanting to interrupt his friend’s thoughts.

 

“My Great-Granda Boffin used to ta talk about it. Granda did, too, but he didn’t remember much—he was just a tyke when Granda followed Marcho and Blanco ‘cross the Misty Mountains and started sowing seed inta the ground and diggin’ hobbit holes here.”

 

The Hobbits Migration a little over a century before had been of just a little concern to those in power. More to the Elves then most Men. Harry had discussed it with Turambar once or twice, and many more times with Elrond and Celeborn.

 

All had essentially come to the general consensus that the belligerence of the migrating Easterlings troubling Gondor then had also forced the Hobbits to flee the lands they’d come from. None of the Easterling folk who’d eventually allied themselves with Gondor ever mentioned the Halflings, but then they weren’t really the sort of things discussed at war councils, either. And Gondor hadn’t minded their addition; they’d sown seeds into previously useless lands, and paid taxes faithfully without fail.

 

But what, if not the war, would have been enough to pull up the roots of such a down-to-earth people and blow them along to new soils?

 

For some reason, Harry had never asked any of the Hobbits themselves. It never seemed liked a good idea. Even now, he didn’t really want to twist his tongue into the questions inside his head.

 

“But it’s part of the unofficial rules now. Talkin’ about that, I mean. It just isn’t done.”

 

Of course not. If it was against ‘The Rules,’ unofficially or not, it just wouldn’t be done by most Hobbits.

 

Most Hobbits. That Buffo was talking around it now highlighted once again just how strange he was for a Hobbit.

 

Then again, the fact that he cared about such things indubitably made him a good Mayor for the Shire to have, and it was to the other Hobbits’ credit that they’d indirectly recognized that fact when they’d elected him. Well, ‘approved’ his appointment was probably a better sketch of how he came into his office, since he hadn’t been running against anyone. But Harry preferred to give the little ones the benefit of the doubt where he could.

 

“Most Men don’t care about us one way or the other. But I’m thinkin’ your magic makes ‘em not really think of us, either. Men. Trolls. Orcs. Other than occasional messengers to meself and the Thain from King Atanatar, the yearly tax collectors, and more often post from Gondor for you, we Hobbits don’t hear much from outside the Shire. No one troubles us.  It’s made our merry way of life so easy.” [2]

 

Harry cocked his head to the side as he finally risked a hesitant reply, “Too easy?”

 

 “Most wouldn’t say so.” Buffo sighed, his round face looking heavier than usual without a smile splitting it. “But it makes me wonder how we’ll fare when you’re gone.”

 

“My wards—the magic that protects the Shire—will last a good long while, Buffo.” Harry tried to reassure him, confident of the fact that even if he wasn’t here to update the wards from time to time, they’d last for at least dozens of generations of Hobbits to come.

 

“Don’t doubt it,” Buffo shook his head, eyes locked on the setting sun. “But what happens a few centuries after you and your lady head to the eternal shores?”

 

Valinor; where wizards came from and Elves eventually went.

 

Harry had never told the hobbits that he wasn’t one of the Istari that’d been arriving from the West in the relatively recent past, so of course they’d assume he and his Elven wife would be headed ‘back **there’** someday.

 

Maybe they’d eventually be able to consider the choice that most Elves had already made and were really only putting off the undertaking thereof. But that day was a long day from coming; they had to survive his destiny on Earth first.

 

Harry sighed, “You needn’t worry about your people, Buffo. I won’t be leaving for a very long time, and even if I were to leave, for good, today, the Shire would be safe for several decades at the very least _._ ”

 

It would take a very powerful—and even more **determined** —evil being to break through. Harry could think of only a few he’d heard of that might be capable of it. And lesser threats, like Orcs, trolls, human raiders, etc. didn’t have anywhere remotely close to the mental fortitude to resist the weakest of his wards.

 

Harry had put a lot of time, effort and power into protecting these pleasant people. He hoped it’d be enough to see them spared the cruel times his kin expected to come; because the One Ring still survived, and through it, Sauron himself.

 

Just as Voldemort did on Earth.

 

A disturbing parallel Harry had already spent years discussing and considering with his family.

 

“That time’ll come, I’m sure. No matter how much you like us mortal folk, you and your lady will follow her people to the undying lands.”

 

A half smile pulled at Harry’s lips. “Will I?”

 

It was the sort of thing every Elf had to decide for themselves, and though the fact was discussed from time to time, prying for the ultimate decision each might make—or have already made—was a bit of a taboo-thing among the immortals.

 

If the choice was his, would he make Ránewen stay with him while most—if not all—other immortals left these shores?

 

No. He’d beg her to go on without him, to leave him, if he couldn’t sail with her when that day came.

 

She wouldn’t.

 

He knew she wouldn’t. No matter how much he pleaded.

 

He and his wife had already had that conversation—in various variations—before, too.

 

“Immortality’s not for me,” Buffo told him, shaking his head. “But then I wasn’t born that way.”

 

Neither was Harry, though he wouldn’t—couldn’t—say that.

 

“The idea of forever,” the hobbit shuddered. “Boggles the mind, it does.”

 

Most Hobbits didn’t think of such things; another example of this friend’s unique spirit.

 

“It suits you, though, I think.”

 

At that, Harry had to smile.

 

It’d been strange at first. As aching and klutz-causing as growth-spurts could be, it’d been a bewildering moment—centuries ago—when he realized that he _wasn’t_ aging. He was sure his Elven kin had noted the fact before he’d consciously registered it, but they’d said nothing till he’d asked.

 

He wasn’t frozen. No, his hair still grew and the nourishment the Elves had lavished upon him after his arrival had led to a noticeable growth spurt in those first few years.

 

The attentions of the best Elven healers in the lands, proper nutrition, exercise and whatnot **had** changed him. But it’d only changed him into what he really should have been if he’d lived properly on Earth. Plus excessive amounts of exercise, physical and magical training atop it all.

 

It was why he only seemed a little short for an Elf, and could otherwise blend in amongst them perfectly—particularly after the adoption ceremony that’d essentially made him Peredhil, in that it gave him the Grace of the Elves and the same Choice all of Elrond’s line could claim. But then, they’d decided long ago that the adoption—and also, in part, his magic—likely had the key roles to play in those changes.

 

If time had any role at all there, it was simply a reference by which the changes might be recorded and nothing more.

 

The surprise and strangeness hadn’t lasted long before gratefulness took their place. At first because it meant he had time to figure out how to get back to Earth, though _that_ fact lost almost all appeal over the years. Later, because it meant that he really belonged among the Elves more than any other race on Middle Earth.

 

That was before the Istari had started arriving, of course. But all of them were old men, like Dumbledore, in appearance and in action. Harry didn’t think he’d ever really feel like he fit in with them. Not any of the ones he’d met in passing anyway. None of whom had recognized him as a wizard, though they did think him an Elf since he'd never let him see that his ears weren't pointed, and hadn't talked directly with any of them himself.

 

“You can’t tell me you think you’re not gonna head west eventually?” Buffo asked, after Harry had apparently been quiet too long.

 

Harry shrugged. “It’s not a decision I’ve had to make.”

 

 “Yet,” Buffo nodded. “Which I’m glad for.”

 

Again, Harry nodded, smiling softly. “As am I.”

 

Though, truthfully, he’d made it already.

 

The cottage door opening behind them made both turn to watch as Ránewen closed it and then graced her way through the few short steps it took to reach the step they were sitting on and sit down beside her husband.

 

“Everything ready, love?” Harry asked as he wrapped an arm around her waist and pecked a quick kiss on her lips.

 

The question wasn’t necessary; they’d really been ready to go for days, and just putting it off till Buffo had the time to come talk with them for a while. Both had known that the little mayor had been putting that talk off, too, but hadn’t minded over much.

 

Ránewen nodded, smiling, and also answered in the Common Tongue, since that was the language they always spoke while with any of their hobbit friends. “Yes. My cousins’ have left already.” Her warm violet gaze went to Buffo then. “We’ve left most of the furnishing and the like. Feel free to use it as you see fit.” She shrugged. “Perhaps the mortal messengers that come may lodge here? It’s up to you.”

 

The nod Buffo offered looked a lot like a bow. “Much obliged, my friends.”

 

“The small chest I showed you a few days ago?” Harry spoke up then. “If you need anything, write a note and put it in there. I’ll get it.”

 

The hobbit’s lips trembled a little as he answered. “Thank yee, milord.”

 

Ránewen reached around Harry to catch the hobbit’s chin, turning his face towards hers, “You’ve been a good friend, Buffo. If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

 

Buffo bit his lip for a second as she released him after pressing a kiss to his brow, and then gave another bow-like-nod. “Thank yee, milady. It-It’s been an honor.”

 

“An honor,” Harry agreed. “And a pleasure.”

 

They sat there for several long minutes, watching as the sun settled into the horizon, and then dropped under it.

 

Then, as its last warming rays were fading from the darkening skies, Ránewen rose and drew her husband to his feet. “We should go, my love.”

 

Harry nodded again, turning to meet his little friend’s eyes as he wrapped an arm around his wife. “Thank you again, Buffo.”

 

He didn’t need to close his eyes anymore; especially for places he knew well.

 

He just _wanted_ to be there, and he and his wife disappeared from the Shire, shooting off towards the Golden Wood on the wings of his magic.

 

~ * **_Vairë’s Workplace, Halls of Mandos, Valinor,_**

**_Yavannië 1 st, 700 T.A. _*** ~

 

Vairë raised an eyebrow as the door to her workroom slammed open, but didn’t otherwise react, her eyes intent on the tapestry she was presently weaving with threads both bright and mundane.

 

“ _How are the Eldar learning Earth’s magic?_ ”

 

She suppressed the urge to sigh, ignoring the question as she focused on a particularly tricky fork of choices to come.

 

“ _Vairë!_ ” the lord of the dead was decidedly displeased with his wife at the moment. “ _Only the most minimal, nature-based magicks were ever intended for the Eldar. It was their wanting more that gave Morgorth the opening he needed to try and enslave them with his rings in the first place!_ ”

 

That, she couldn’t ignore, but she didn’t turn from her work as she answered, “ _Even the best of intentions can yield horrific results,_ ” Vairë murmured, shaking her head. “ _We have made mistakes also._ ”

 

Mandos was quiet for a long moment, and she knew he was shaking his head as he replied, “ _We have, but that is hardly relevant now. Manwë will never allow—_ ”

 

“ _He does not care!_ ” she couldn’t help but snap.

 

“ _He merely hasn’t noticed yet! He will when the powers over Earth declare war on us for not only taking their champion, but his—_”

 

“ _They will not._ ”

 

“ _You cannot be sure of that, dear heart. You weave the fates of those under our care, not our fates! And certainly not the fates of our cousins in other dimensions!_”

 

“ _So all of you have always assumed,_” the Weaver shook her head again, more amazed than she’d ever care to admit at her husband’s—at all the Valar’s—lack of understanding of just what it **was** to weave fates and destinies.

 

Sometimes she was sure the mortals understood her existence and purpose better than the other mighty beings that were worshipped by them. Though the ones that called her—and her cousins—‘bitches’ were just idiotic fools. Not that Vairë held anything against canines (there were times she took comfort in just how predictable most of the clever creatures were), but as the comparison was intended to insult, being insulted by it was inevitable.

 

Only the familiar sounds of her threads slipping through her fingers—together and around each other in an increasingly elaborate design—filled the room for several moments. But that couldn’t last, not when she could feel her husband’s shocked gaze shooting into her spine.

 

“ _…But… You…You mean Melkor…_ ” Shock was giving way to anger as the ideas took root. “ _The Lamps! And-And The Trees! Vairë, how could you?!_”

The Weaver of Fate snorted, somehow having expected something more from the love of her eternity. “ _I weave only possibilities, Námo! The paths that time may take. I am not the one who decides which ones adorn our walls after their tales are done. I have no absolute control over the eventual outcomes, you know that! I can only hope for the best, just like all of us._”

 

“ _You…You could’ve warned us._ ”

 

“ _I did._”

 

After another lengthy silence, Mandos sighed. “ _And exactly what hopes make you think that this is a good idea?_ ”

 

“ _Some of the Eldar learning magic, you mean?_ ” she shook her head, not bothering to wait for a reply. “ _It had to happen. It began the moment we decided to bring the boy-hero here._ ”

 

“ _Love, please don’t lie to me._ ”

 

Vairë dropped the spools she’d been busy with, too infuriated to wince as they hit the floor while she spun around to glare at her husband. “ _Never has a lie passed my lips, Námo. Never. If I cannot tell the truth, I do not speak. You know that._” She rose to her feet then, snapping her fingers to send all her tools back into her workbasket, not needing to watch to know that they’d all obediently float to and settle in their assigned places without her bothering to watch them. Though she would need to repair the dropped threads and the sagging portion of the interrupted pattern later.

 

Mandos caught her by both shoulders, halting her, when she tried to stride passed him. “ _I am sorry, dear heart. I don’t mean to hurt you. Or doubt you._ ”

 

Her fury fled as quickly as it’d been inflamed, and she sagged into his arms with a sigh. Her eyes dropped close as he placed a kiss to her forehead, and for several moments they just stood their together. Then she sighed again. “ _The Eldar adopted Elerossë. As did we._ ”

 

“ _Yes. But Earth’s powers will not release him, his destiny is too important there. He has to go back._ ”

 

“ _Eventually, yes._ ” Vairë smiled slightly, “ _But my counterpart doesn’t particularly care how old he is when he is returned, so long as he is, at some point, sent back. Nor are there any plans for him after he has saved his people._ ”

 

“ _Oh?_ ” Mandos sighed. “ _I don’t believe my counterpart is nearly as understanding. Wilhofaire’s continuing existence offends him too much._ ”

 

“ _Which is why he did not protest when we started all this. More than anything, he wants Wilhofaire’s demise. He doesn’t particularly care how it comes about, so long as it does._ ”

 

“ _Understandable._ ” Mandos’s nodded was very slight, barely brushing the hair atop her head. “ _I have spared those who should die, from time to time. But I do think having the decision stolen from me would rather offend me._ ”

 

Vairë laughed, “ _Oh, I know it would. That is why you abhor the Nazgûl so._ ”

 

“ _Just as anyone deciding to weave their own fate would bother you._ ”

 

Vairë considered that for a moment, before smiling slightly. “ _Oh, I don’t know. It might, I suppose. But then, it could be interesting, too._ ”

 

She was quite sure he rolled his dark eyes in response to that. Her moments of whimsy often exasperated him.

 

He sighed again. “ _Explain this to me, dear heart. Please._ ”

 

 “… _Elerossë’s adoption was not just in name, husband, but by blood and soul, also._ ” Vairë shrugged a little. “ _And the transference through such bonds is not one way. Such was Eru Ilúvatar’s decision long ago, and I cannot challenge that any more than you can._ ”

 

The rapid recovery the so-called ‘boy-who-lived’ had made while he’d happily finished his childhood under the shining boughs of Lothlórien had been precisely what they’d sought from encouraging Celeborn and Galadriel to follow their hearts and fully accept the young wizard into their family. Well, one of the things they’d sought, at least. The other hadn’t yet been decided, and wouldn’t be for a long time to come.

 

“ _Elerossë merely showed signs of—and results from—the bonds sooner than his immortal-born and adult kin._ ”

 

Mandos drew back a little, to look down into her eyes, but he didn’t release her. “ _Why?_ ”

 

Vairë chuckled. “ _It takes a century for an Elf to reach physical maturity. After that, they are not designed to change for a very long time. Not physically. Mentally, they all mature at different rates for centuries—if not millennia—after that, before they become set in their supposed wisdom._ ”

 

“ _Well,_ ” a familiar voice interrupted them, making both turn towards the doorway, where the master of dreams was leaning against the frame. “ _The wife getting magic, I could understand. Galadriel, certainly, and I suppose Celeborn, Celebrían and her children. I’m a little lost as to how Elrond gets it, though._ ”

 

“ _Irmo, good day,_ ” Vairë nodded to him as she drew out of her husband’s arms and headed back to her workbench. Once there, she sat with her back to the half-full loom, facing the two male Vala. “ _Anyone else we should expect, do you think?_ ”

 

The Master of Dreams laughed, “ _You’re asking us, Mistress-I-wove-the-disasters-that-shaped-and-are-still mourned-upon-Valinor-and-didn’t-bother-giving-anyone-a-heads-up-ahead-of-time?_ ”

 

Vairë through her hands wide in exasperation. “ _I did warn all of you! Several times, I might add. It’s not my fault that none of you cared to listen till it was too late!_ ”

 

“ _Our memories do not fade, dear heart. Nor do they blur._ ” Mandos shook his head, frowning at her just as his closest friend was. “ _While we might not have listened to you when we should have, we would surely remember the conversations._ ”

 

Vairë turned back to her loom, her tone sharp even while she yanked her work basket up off the floor and started rummaging through it again. “ _What’s past must stay there. And I’ll admit most of the warnings I offered were to our king, as he was the one that should’ve done something to prevent the disasters. But one such talk with his majesty occurred before both of you._” She shook her head again when both just stared at her in confusion. “ _Surely you remember the last celebration that Morgorth attended as one of us?_ ”

 

Both Valar nodded, but their quizzical gazes kept studying her, understanding not dawning.

 

Vairë sighed, “ _I spent the first hour of that party trying to speak with Manwë. It wasn’t till Varda scolded him for ignoring me for so long that I managed it, and I know both of you remember that. Our gracious queen so rarely loses her temper, after all._ ”

 

Both nodded, clearly amused as that part of the memory played inside their minds for a moment, before the warnings she was referring to were also remembered, earning her matching frowns.

 

“ _Love, his majesty was already intoxicated at that point, as were we. Surely you could’ve spoken to us aft—_ ”

 

“ _No. Nothing could’ve changed after that moment_.” She shook her head again. “ _I do not know all that is to come too far in advanced of its happening, you know. I can see only the outcomes of decisions that have been made—or soon will be made. Morgorth made his decision that night, and after that there was no going back to what was._ ”

 

“ _But surely you could’ve been more specific—_ ”

 

“ _No._ ” Vairë cut her brother-in-law off, sighing. “ _I cannot be any more specific than I was. Ever. It is not permissible._ ”

 

Had they questioned her further on that point, she would’ve been forced to point out that all of them were subjects to the will of their creator, again. Thankfully, it was not necessary.

 

“ _Could you not have persuaded Morgorth to—_ ”

 

“ _You, both of you, know me very well._ ” Vairë snapped once more, frowning even more severely than they were. “ _Do you really think I didn’t try to stop him? To at least change his mind?_ ” She shook her head. “ _Of course I did. It could not be done!_ ”

 

She wouldn’t go any further than that. Wouldn’t travel down the path of the alternate futures she’d seen—and been terrified by—in that moment.

 

The fact that she’d been forced to accept that at least one of the Valar or Maiar had to become evil incarnate, so that the balance could be properly formed upon Arda.

 

Wouldn’t, because she knew that the next person Eru would consider turning was standing before her now, and he didn’t need to know that that was why she’d backed down. That was why she’d stood by and watched after that, as disaster after disaster shook and almost shattered their world.

 

Wouldn’t ever allow herself to admit that the alternative would be so, **so** much worse.

 

Námo shook his head, “I don’t understand.”

 

“Nor do I,” Irmo admitted.

 

Vairë turned back to her loom, using the repetitive—relaxingly familiar—motions to focus her concentration on as she answered them. “ _Good, and evil, cannot exist without one another; if only for the standards of comparison that one might evaluate each by. Good: Evil. Life: Death. Light: Dark. All are opposites that exist to balance each other—and by the will of Eru Ilúvatar, it must be so._ ”

 

“ _Why?_ ” her husband demanded.

 

She shook her head. “ _The balance is delicate. Evil must occur—even here—if only to ensure that the goodness we desire is both understood, and appreciate all the more._ ”

 

“ _But…_ ” the Master of Dream shook his head. “ _We know the difference—_ ”

 

“ _Now, we do._ ” She agreed.“ _Did we before?_ ” 

 

Both of them stared at her in bewildered silence as she shook her head and continued, answering herself when they could not.

 

“ _No. Not really. How could we? Despite all our powers and abilities, none of us are omnipotent or omnipresent. Even were we willing to share everything with one another, we would not be._ ” Vairë sighed and looked down. “ _We are the tools of higher powers than ourselves, and even they must bow to Eru’s will. You’d do well to remember that. Always. We all would._ ” After another moment of silence, she started weaving again. “ _Now, please leave. I have work to do. As do you._ ”

 

~ * **_Caras Galadhon, Lothlórien,_**

**_Narwain 9 th, 702 T.A._** * ~

 

“ _Monitoring the mortals for developing magical abilities would probably be easier with the help of the Istari,_ ” Ránewen brought up an argument that’d become old years before.

 

Harry shook his head. “ _It might be, but Naneth won’t allow it._ ”

 

“ _And you don’t want to?_ ”

 

“ _I just think Saruman’s creepy… and no, I don’t think ‘trustworthy’ can figure into anyone that fits that description._ ”

 

“ _Did you come to this realization while you were stealing records of their lore from him?_ ”

 

“ _No. I thought he was creepy before that—that’s why I didn’t want to ask him for lessons. Well, that, and Nana wouldn’t let me._ ”

 

Ránewen’s eyes narrowed in his direction, “ _Wait…If Lady Galadriel wouldn’t let you go to him for lessons, and this is before you decided to steal from him, why were you there in the first place?_ ”

 

Harry cringed a little, before forcing a shrug and an innocent expression. “ _I was curious._ ” When she continued to frown at him, he sighed. “ _Oh give me a break, I was only AGE!_ ”

 

~ * **_Caras Galadhon, Lothlórien,_**

**_Gwaeron 31 st, 747 T.A. _*** ~

 

Harry appeared in the usual spot for apparating into their telain.

 

The little area that everyone had learned to never step into unless you were apparating into there, and then to always move out of it quickly. Just in case. Not all ‘apparating accidents’ ended up with results anywhere near as pleasant as the first time Ránewen had unintentionally done it, after all.

 

After glancing towards the long longue, to make sure no one happened to be in it at the time, he apparating over to it, landing on his back and groaning softly as he covered his face with his hands.

 

“ _Long day, melda nîn?_ ” Ránewen asked, grinning slightly as she turned her eyes back to her workbook, which she compiled potions formulas and ideas in.

 

Her husband grumbled almost inaudible—even to her Elven ears—for several seconds, before he finally slid his hands off his face and let his arms drape down off the lounge as he started up at the ceiling. “ _We should not have left the Shire._ ”

 

The elleth raised an eyebrow, but didn’t comment on his words, instead inquiring, “ _All is well in Imladris, I hope?_ ”

 

She knew it should be. She’d just apparated back from having tea with Galadriel, Celebrían and Arwen a few hours before. The odds of that changing in so short a time weren’t high.

 

Harry grimaced, “ _As well as it can be, I suppose, when the Gwenyn are bored._ ”

 

Ránewen chuckled. “ _Their casting has improved?_ ”

 

“ _With each lesson,_ ” he confirmed, sighing.

 

His wife glanced at him again, and raised an eyebrow at the exasperated expression he wore. “ _Don’t sound too pleased with your pupils._”

 

Catching the barely-there sarcasm she’d laced into her words, Harry sighed. “ _Their pranks are starting to annoy me._ ”

 

Ránewen suppressed a grin as she turned back to her formulas. “ _What does that have to do with their ability to cast spells? Lord Elrond forbade the use of magic for such things._ ”

 

“ _No,_ ” Harry drawled disgustedly. “ _My dear brother-in-law didn’t forbid the use of magic for pranks—he merely forbade the use of magic on anyone that doesn’t know all about me. Which left Imladris’s council, our entire family, and all the Galadhrim at their mercy._ ”

 

Ránewen blinked. “ _They’ve never pranked me with magic._ ”

 

Harry frowned at her. “ _They’ve pranked you before?_ ”

 

“ _Well…no. Save for the time I fell prey to a prank they’d set for Arwen, and that was decades ago._ ”

 

“ _When was that?_ ”

 

Ránewen waived a hand, “ _Oh, when you were fighting in the East._ ” She shook her head. “ _It was quite funny, actually. Except the poor dears felt so bad about it; they apologized every time they saw me for weeks afterwards._ ”

 

“ _Oh,_ ” Harry nodded. “ _That’s okay then._ ”

 

Ránewen blinked at the audible satisfaction in his words, and looked up to raise an eyebrow at him again. “ _I don’t suppose you had anything to do with why they felt so sorry?_ ”

 

He immediately shrugged, shaking his head with an expression of pure innocents painted over his features. “ _Me? How could I have had anything to do with it if it happened while I was away at war?_ ”

 

The elleth’s lips twitched slightly, but she went back to work at her formulas as she asked. “ _What good would our staying on the Shire still do in regards to their pranks? You’d still be visiting them every week for their lessons. And usually you find their antics amusing—giving back as good as you get. Elrond blames you for how bad they are, for a reason._ ”

 

Harry let his head fall back again, frowning at the ceiling. “ _Elrond has no right to throw stones in that regard, if they get it from anyone—it’s him. Though Celebrían’s not much better. And they were worse today. So much, much worse._ ”

 

“ _Oh? Why?_ ”

 

Harry sighed disgustedly, “ _Because their dear, dear father decided that it was alright for them to explore the mortal world now: as long as they take their beloved uncle—yours truly—as a guide. And because I couldn’t tell them when we’d be venturing right away, they decided I needed to be pranked. Thus, I had to tolerate the two of them bouncing around the whole day, happy as can be, save for their irritation with me._ ”

 

Ránewen looked up again, cocking her head to the side. “ _You did tell Celebrían you were willing to do that, years ago._ ”

 

“ _…That was before they made it their life’s goal to manage a magical prank on me. I’m going to have to put two sets of wards up every time we make camp—one to protect the camp, and the other to protect me!_ ”

 

Ránewen chuckled, shaking her head again as she closed her workbook and put it away in a nearby drawer. “ _They’re only allowed to use magic on those who know about you. You just said so yourself._ ” She shot him a smirk as he glared balefully at her. “ _If you let them get you every once and a while, they might stop trying so often._ ”

 

“ _They’ve pranked me before!_ ”

 

“ _Not with magic._ ”

 

Harry frowned, and then shrugged. “ _I can’t help noticing it and reacting to it before anything can happen to me. I know magic too well and was trained to react quickly, by your uncle._”

 

“ _Yes, Uncle Haldir still looks back on those years fondly._ ”

 

“ _That’s because he’s a closet sadist._ ”

 

His wife giggled, making him groan again.

 

“ _He is! You can ask anyone who’s ever trained under him, and they’ll say the same thing!_ ”

 

 “ _Only because he cares._ ” Ránewen shook her head, grinning. “ _And you can ask those very same people—yourself among them—if his training was worth it in the end. None will deny it, anymore than you do._ ”

 

“ _No,_ ” Harry groaned his agreement.

 

“ _Perhaps you should talk to uncle? He was your guide when you wandered Middle Earth’s mortal lands as a youth._ ”

 

“ _Guard, more than guide, but yes. I’ll talk to him, I guess._ ”

 

Then, recalling his earlier comment, she asked, “ _Why would any of this make you wish we still lived with the periannath?_ ”

 

“ _They’re mortal. It counts._ ”

 

Ránewen blinked; then laughed. “ _The Shire would not have kept the Gwenyn entertained for long, melda nîn,”_ she shook her head. _“Even if you were willing to inflict them on the perriannath._ ”

 

“… _True._ ”

 

Still chuckling, she pointed out; “ _You know, you don’t actually have to camp with them. They can apparate well enough, you could just take them to places and have them apparate home afterwards. That way they see the mortal world, like they want, and it should help them improve their apparating abilities without tiring you overmuch._ ”

 

Harry blinked, then grinned, apparating over two his wife’s side to kiss her. “ _Ránewen, you’re a genius!_ ”

 

~ * **_Osgiliath, Gondor,_**

**_Gwirith 15 th, 747 T.A. _*** ~

 

“ _Settle down you two,_ ” Harry admonished, too quietly for the mortals to hear, all the while fighting the urge to chuckle at his nephews antics. Which wasn’t made any easier by the fact that both of the brother’s Míriel had been laughing at the younger elves for a while now. “ _You’re drawing a bit of attention._ ”

 

It was market day in Gondor’s impressive capital, which made it all the more impressive than it normally was. Long sheets of varying colors and qualities were stretches from building tops to other building tops, covering the streets below in shadows of varying colors and coolness. It was necessary, too. In the hottest days of the year, few would be able to wander the markets for long in the hot sun, no matter how many refreshing drinks the merchants might offer.

 

In some of the less successful areas the merchants could only stretch the sheets from stall to stall, leaving the shade below somewhat cramped, but still not as hot as it otherwise would’ve been. There one could find cute little knickknacks of varying value, and plenty of things trying to be passed off as worth much more than they actually were. If one was lucky and had a good eye, they might find something worth buying. Of course, for those who didn’t have much money to spare—which was most of Gondor’s citizens—it was all they could afford to spend on things that weren’t necessities. So those areas were generally much more crowded than the more costly areas. It also, indubitably, contained the best places to grab a quick snack, which was where they’d found the fried things his nephews were still much away at as they hopped from stall to stall to stall.

 

Arwen had only accepted a small sample of the tasty morsels that generally weren’t made among the Elves—because they weren’t good for you and whatnot, but she was breezing through the shopping area even faster than her brothers were with many merchants bending over backwards to show her anything she might spare a glance at.

 

All of them were disguised to hide their Elven characteristics—with Harry and the Miriels’ appearances altered from what they’d been when they’d lived in Gondor—and all were dressed in what was obviously travel attire. Nonetheless, the sheer quality of the Elf-made attire drew many eyes, and very little would convince the merchants that they were not nobility. Which most of them were, of course, even if they wouldn’t admit to it here.

 

The important thing about this being, of course, that the merchants knew that they had money to spend, and were going to squeeze every coin they could out of them. The twins had yet to learn the art of bartering—nor did they quite understand why they should—but Arwen was quite good at it.

 

Regardless, it repeatedly helped that Harry had refused to hand over any money to the three before they entered the market; because they had to convince him if they wanted to buy something, it made the merchants aware of that fact that no matter how much the children—even at **AGE and AGE** , his sister’s kid would probably always be kids in his eyes—wanted something, **he** was the one they had to convince. Arwen was the only one that’d tried to go through Ránewen several times, and succeeded, when Harry was being ‘too stubborn.’ Still, as she at least tended to consider how much something cost when she decided to buy it, he didn’t mind too much. The twins, on the other hand…the phrase ‘a kid in a candy store’ came to mind repeatedly, specifically a kid who was addicted to sugar. Times two.

 

Hopefully that’d changed now that they were browsing the stalls of much wealthier merchants. Here, the merchants either owned the buildings near where their stalls were stationed or paid the owners for the right to use their roof for however long they needed. The thicker, darker sheets blocked almost all of the sunlight; leaving the area below quite cool and mostly lit by advantageously placed lanterns with flame on candles or oiled wicks flittering on the inside. Some of the merchants used lighter sheets that let some sunlight sift through, coloring the environs below prettily.

 

“Let us look in here!” Arwen called happily, ignoring the twins’ groans as she led the way into a large shop that her brothers had tried to bypass.

 

A cloth merchant. Clothes weren’t exactly something the twins put much thought into. They knew how to mend clothing, having buckled down to learn the necessary skill in the event that they might need to do it while away from seamstresses—or healers, in the case of stitching wounds.

 

But they didn’t protest much beyond the groans, indulging their little sister. Though the stern look Harry had found himself sending them several times already probably had something to do with that. That, and the fact that they still had their snacks to distract themselves with for a time.

 

“Welcome to _Fenton’s Fabrics_!” the proprietor greeted them before the whole group was even halfway into his area, a wide smile on his face as he focused on them, leaving the few other shoppers that were browsing to be helped by his assistants. “I am Fenton son of Fentein, and I am entirely at your service, of course.” He smiled widely, glancing between Ránewen and Arwen as he rose from his bow. “What might I assist you fine ladies with?”

 

Seeing Arwen was a lit bit daunted by the man’s forwardness, Ránewen stepped forward with an amused smile, “Perhaps you could recommend what cloths we should, perhaps, consider for the coming season?”

 

“Of course, of course,” the pleasant man nodded, his belly jiggling a little as he hopped around to shout at some of his assistants. “Jowan! Neal! Fetch Rebecca, and help her bring out the new stock.” He turned back to them a little more slowly, so his belly barely shifted with the movement, but his chin wobbled a little as he nodded repeatedly, still smiling hugely. “It’ll be just a few moments, I should think.” He gestured to the nearby seating area, which was actually large enough to accommodate their whole group. “Would you care for some refreshments?”

 

“Yes, thank you,” Ránewen agreed, smiling warmly at him as Harry helped her into a seat, before turning to nod in approval when he found that Elrohir had already helped her sister settle in hers before claiming his own seat, still munching at his fried thing all the while.

 

Harry thought it was some kind of dough, but hadn’t been paying that much attention when he handed out the few coppers it cost to buy them. While the twins had had several, Ránewen and Arwen had split—and not even finished—one, but Harry and the Míriels hadn’t been interested in the foods they’d tried many times before.

“Miladies, milords,” a girl that couldn’t be more than twelve curtsied to them, smiling just as widely as the big-bellied man that was wobbling towards the back since he’d waived her over, and was now undoubtedly going to the closed off area to harass his employs out of the belief that it’d make them work faster. The girl bore very little resemblance; she was much slighter than him. But her smile looked like his, as did her nose, so they were undoubtedly related somehow. “We have mead, mulled wine, or apple tea, if you’d like.”

 

“Tea for all of us, please,” Harry ordered before his nephews could say anything. He knew that the Míriels and Ránewen preferred that anyway, as would Arwen, and he didn’t particularly want Elrohir and Elladan imbibing alcohol on their first trip to what was undoubtedly the most abundant mortal market on Middle Earth.

 

“Yes, milord,” she curtsied again, before hurrying away to fetch the tea just as Fenton came waddling back out with several assistants lugging bolts of fabric behind them.

 

“Thank you, Fancy,” the big man gave her a kindly grin, which could have been for show—if he wanted to seem like a good master and thus insert himself firmly in the ladies good graces—but Harry was fairly sure the pleasant sparkle in the man’s eyes and the laugh lines around his mouth and eyes were real. “Now, of course, this season calls for lovely pastels like this fine coral, or perhaps this periwinkle is more to your liking?” he indicated the two colors, studious eyes watching Ránewen and Arwen closely.

 

The man was clearly intelligent enough to know whom he was best off catering to, but given how successful his shop had to be to even be located in this area of the city, let alone as well off as it and its owner appeared, that wasn’t a surprise.

 

‘ _Elerossë._ ’

 

Only the centuries he’d had to become accustomed to his mother’s mental intrusions kept Harry from starting and drawing unnecessary attention to himself. Though he couldn’t help but be surprised, he’d spoken to his parents just that morning, before apparating to Imladris to collect the three youngest members of their entourage, and there'd been no indication of any sort of concern from either of them then, let alone the sheer alarm he could sense coming from his mother's mind. ‘ _Naneth? What’s wrong?_ ’ He asked, suppressing the urge to physically frown, since he could sense her unease.

 

‘ _There’s—No. I’m sorry, ion nîn. But Celeborn and I need to speak with you in person. You must return to Caras Galadhon as quickly as you can._ ’

 

Harry blinked, but agreed quickly. ‘ _Of course. I shall arrive as soon as I am able._ ’

 

It might take a while to get out of Gondor’s capital; particularly on market day, when secluded public areas were practically nonexistent.

 

‘ _Time is of the essence, Elerossë._ ’

 

‘ _I understand, but shall I bring the others?_ ’ he inquired, glancing regretfully at his niece and wife, who were both delighted by the little shop they’d just discovered.

 

Ránewen had visited the market before, of course: her happiness came from watching their niece now. Arwen’s delight was borne of the decidedly new experience. The Elves didn’t have markets that were anything like this. What was needed was made as it was needed by those who specialized in the art; the widespread variations engendered by what this world did not call capitalism—though that’s what it was—simply didn’t exist amongst the patient immortals.

 

Galadriel’s response came a little slower than he tended to expect. ‘ _That won’t be necessary. Better to let them enjoy themselves._ ’

 

‘ _Very well, I’ll see you soon, Nana,_ ’ Harry offered, waiting till he sensed her telepathic connection fade to the barely-there bond it normally was when they weren’t talking mind-to-mind. Then he turned to his wife, rising as he did so, and wasn’t surprised to see her watching him with barely concealed concern even as every other eye watched him step closer to her, though the mortal merchants were more discrete, save for the littlest one who was staring wide-eyed. “My love, I must be going. I have a meeting to get to.” The words were the sort he’d have said many times before in similar situations as this: Ránewen was used to them and they were exactly the kind of thing a merchant would expect a doting husband to say before leaving his family still at the market.

 

Ránewen nodded slowly, even after everyone else in their group plus the merchants were now looking at them very obviously as the couple turned their heads so she could whisper in his ear. “Of course. Shall we accompany you?”

 

Harry shook his head immediately, speaking so all could here now. “No, stay. Enjoy yourselves.” He glanced to the Míriel brothers then, who’d come in from their self-decided guard-post as soon as soon they’d seen him stand much sooner than expected. “Take care of them, and have everyone home by sundown.”

 

Both brothers nodded, but there was a hint of disapproval in their eyes. They didn’t like leaving him unguarded anywhere out of Elven settlements. But the charge of guarding his wife and the children of Elrond and Celebrían was enough to deter their protests. Despite their discomfort at leaving him alone, they knew he could actually take care of himself. None of them could be quite so sure about that when it came to some of the youngest Elves on Middle Earth.

 

Finally, turning to his sister’s children, he issued a single order. “Behave.” After a moment, and a slightly hurt look from Arwen—who’s siblings were feigning innocence—he relented. “And enjoy yourselves, of course.”

 

Even though the twins didn’t respond, he knew he didn’t really have to doubt them. They wouldn’t risk their right to visit mortal lands by displeasing him, after all. And even under all their playfulness and rowdiness, they were both gradually growing up. Gradually.

 

“Thank you, uncle,” Arwen murmured, before shooting a slightly hesitant glance towards the mortal merchants, who were watching him now.

 

Understanding where some of her uncertainty was from now, he reached into his pocket with a sigh and drew his rather large money bag from within. Even without it being enchanted to be bottomless, it was an impressive sight; particularly since it contained only gold coins. He handed it to his wife with a nod, bending over a little to peck a kiss on her lips before leaving quickly.

 

None of them knew what was going on, anymore than he did, really. But if his mother thought they were better off wondering, and enjoying themselves for now, he was inclined to trust her. And later turn his wife’s wrath on her mother-in-law if need be.

 

His original estimation of just how long it took to find adequate privacy was correct. He ended up leaving the market area entirely, heading into the closest private area of the city: the well-guarded homes of the upper class. It took several more minutes to find an empty, and unobserved, alley, but once he was there he quickly focused his will on his mother’s mirror grove, and apparated there sliding through Lothlórien’s powerful wards with the ease only a welcome magic-wielder could expect.

 

His parents were waiting for him there, both visibly worried, which did nothing to reassure him.

 

“Ada? Nana? _What’s wrong?_ ”

 

Galadriel opened her mouth to respond, but then inexpiably closed it, glancing at her husband, who sighed.

 

“ _Astaldir’s caravan has fallen prey to Orcs in the Misty Mountains, my son,_ ” Celeborn explained, indicating the nearby magical mirror with a grimace. “ _Your mother sensed their fear and came to the clearing to see what was happening. Many are already dead._ ”

 

Easily able to see why they then would’ve called him, Harry hurried over to the Mirror and stared into its nadir. For a moment only shiny silver shimmered up from its depths, but then the waters darkened and a large party of Elves beset by Orcs appeared.

 

There were many dead Orcs. But there were many Elves already dead too. They were outnumbered five to one. At least.

 

“ _Haldir has already assembled what warriors we can send from here,_ ” Celeborn went on, drawing his son’s eyes from the horrifying images. “ _They are ready to leave as soon as you are. But you cannot appear in the immediate—_ ”

 

“ _Why not?_ ” Harry cut him off, the words whipping out on an angry tongue.

 

What was the point of apparating or portkeying if they weren’t going to go to directly where the problem was?

 

“ _Of those there, only Astaldir knows your past, my son._ ” Galadriel told him, her voice sad but firm. “ _The others know nothing of your history or your heritage._ ”

 

Harry closed his eyes, drawing in a deep breath.

 

How many times would his secret come back to haunt him?

 

But then he shook it off and turned on his heel, apparating to his telain as he sent his response directly to his mother’s mind whilst he hurried about preparing for battle. ‘ _Tell Haldir we leave in five minutes, Naneth._ ’

 

He sensed her agreement instantly, and paid it no more mind as he hurried through the practiced moves of donning his armor. Though he’d never worn the royal Elven armor whist pretending to be a mortal and fighting at King Turambar’s side, he’d still worn the armor his father had had fashioned for him many times before now. And the intricate ties and clips that most needed another’s hands to reach were easily handled by magic.

 

Thus five minutes later he was calling to his mother again, ‘ _Where are they?_ ’

 

The knowledge of Haldir—and his parents’—location appeared immediately in his head, making apparating there child’s play. Directly on its heels, however, was the knowledge of where the warriors of that unfortunate caravan were still fighting for the lives of the few who remained.

 

“ _My lord,_ ” Haldir immediately acknowledged his arrival, and the tightness around the Marchwarden’s eyes displayed just how tightly wound his mentor was as he saluted his prince with a fist over his heart. “ _The Wardens are ready._ ”

 

Harry nodded his acknowledgement, and then blinked as he realized something he hadn’t before. “Ada?”

 

He could not remember ever seeing his father in full battle armor before, but that was what Celeborn of Lothlórien was wearing. And the implications of that were more than a little unsettling for the Elf-Lord’s son.

 

“ _We must go, Elerossë,_ ” Celeborn replied, his voice brooking no argument as he met his son’s eyes.

 

Their gazes stayed locked for a long second, but then the younger male nodded.

 

He’d sparred with his Adar before; there was no doubt in his mind that the ancient Elf was a far better swordsman then him. Harry had beaten Celeborn only once while sparring without magic; and a part of him _still_ thought his father had _let_ him win that fight.

 

Not that he’d be going without at least a little reassurance…

 

Harry took his arm out and pointed it at his father, murmuring “portus,” as he tapped his father’s chest piece. “ _Say mother’s name if anything happens; this portkey will bring you back._ ”

 

Celeborn actually blinked, but he didn’t even try to argue. Whether that was because he didn’t want to waste time or had more to do with the approval in both Galadriel and Haldir’s eyes, Harry couldn’t say as he turned to accept the bundled rope his mother had been holding.

 

Harry thought for only a moment, before he decided on a location that was near enough to the battle to let them all reach it quickly but far enough away to ensure that no enemies who escaped would spread words of Elves literally appearing out of thin air. Or, at least they wouldn’t have any credible images of that for Sauron or his allies to pluck from their minds. Then he murmured “portus” again, tapping the rope before sheathing his wand in the holster hidden by his armguards. He grabbed one end of the rope then handed the rest of the bundle to Haldir. “ _Everyone needs to grab hold of this._ ”

 

The Marchwarden nodded and immediately headed off down the line of warriors waiting for deployment, quickly unwinding the rope as he made his way down the line instructing the Elven warriors to all take hold. Harry was more than a little glad to see the warriors were all on foot. Though that could make their return take a little more time, he didn’t like to think of inflicting a portkey on any poor horse, Elven bred and trained or not. Less than a minute later Haldir returned to grasp the rope directly next to Celeborn, giving Harry a nod.

 

“Cormamin niuve tenna’ ta elea lle au’, dan quel fara.” Galadriel murmured, her sad, wise eyes locked on her husband and son. [My heart shall weep until it sees thee again, but happy hunting.]

 

Celeborn bent a little to place a chaste kiss on his wife’s lips, but then nodded to his son, who gave the Lady of Light a smile, before activating the portkey with the word: “Rescue.”

 

The magic he’d spelled into the portkey immediately seize his navel and yanked him away from the safety of the Elven kingdom, sending him hurtling through space for several seconds, till hard gray ground appeared beneath him, the warriors all soaring towards it till their feet crashed into the hard rocks.

 

If ever there was a time when Harry was particularly thankful for the increased agility he’d inherited from being magically adopted by Elves, it was when he had to use a portkey. This time was no different, for though he had to take a step to save his balance, he didn’t doubt he would’ve crashed to the ground—and would’ve looked like a complete klutz amongst the graceful Elven warriors—had it not been for that.

 

The screams and war cries reached their ears first, and all of the warriors immediately ran towards them. It was only a few steps before the snarls of Orcs and the clanging clashes of weapons were also heard.

 

And then they were there.

 

The archer’s arrows whistled through the air and into the Orcs first, but the swordsman reached them only seconds later.

 

Harry parried one Orc’s attack, feigning to the right and immediately beheading the beast an instant later before turning to take on another. That Orc lost its sword arm, before Harry was turning to meet another attacker, all the while trying to keep an eye on everyone around him.

 

The astonished relief on the faces of the Elves who hadn’t remotely expected rescue was undeniable, just as the determined steel in the visages of all the warriors was easily seen as they danced through the battlefield.

 

Elves often stood apart from Men, but the contrast between them in battle was even more apparent; giving Harry the revelation that his connection to the Elves during his time with Turambar may have been suspected long before he’d imagined possible, if only because he didn’t doubt he fought more like an Elf then a Man.

 

A song for the eyes; every move rehearsed hundreds of thousands of times before to sway into a steady flow of powerful, deadly dance steps. And that was just the normal warriors.

 

Celeborn was something else all together. Academically, he knew his father was over forty-five-centuries old, and he knew at least a little about each war his father had fought in during the ages past. But seeing the mythical result of that before him still stole his breath a few times.

 

Whereas Harry was taking on one or two or sometimes three Orcs at a time, the ancient Sindarin Elf was weaving through the battle like a hawk amongst sparrows. Gliding and soaring, dual swords flashing and slashing. This way and that, Orc after Orc falling each and every way he stepped.

 

“ _Pay attention, my lord!_ ” Haldir’s voice suddenly snapped from a few steps away, and Harry glanced in his direction in time to see him finish off the two Orcs that’d undoubtedly been trying to sneak up on the distracted wizard.

 

Even if his mentor’s unhappy chiding wasn’t enough to make the wizard a bit abashed, the alarmed glance from his father certainly would be, so Harry determinedly focused on the area immediately surrounding him, spinning to fight back-to-back with Haldir and only glancing around every now and then to make sure they were still winning.

 

Not that that could really be doubted.

 

The Orcs that dwelt in the Mountains were scrawny, cowardly beasts and as the odds had were now much closer to two to one with the arrival of the Galadhrim warriors—odds that each and every Elven warrior was more than able to handle with ease—most of the monsters were fleeing as quickly as they could even as many of them were being brought down by archers as they attempted flight, till only a few stragglers remained to fall to Elven blades and arrows.

 

Harry cleaved one last Orc in two, before glancing around to see the handful that remained already well outnumbered; which explained why Haldir’s form had already relaxed behind him. And so he looked around for his father, breathing a sigh of relief as he saw the tall, silver-haired warrior striding towards him moments later.

 

“ _You did well, my son,_ ” Celeborn told him softly, catching his shoulder in a gentle grasp. “ _But you must not let your concern for others distract you from your own opponents. Not ever._ ”

 

“Uma, Adar,” Harry agreed, looking down for a second, before he was suddenly pulled into the taller male’s strong arms.

 

“Heru Celeborn, Heru Elerossë, mae govanenn!” a vaguely familiar voice called, and both turned to watch as Elrond’s advisor—one of the eldest Elves remaining in Imladris—approached them, a tired but thankful smile on his face. “ _Your rescue was unexpected, but we cannot thank you enough._ ”

 

“ _Astaldir,_ ” Celeborn greeted the other ancient with a warriors grip. “ _We were happy to help. Our horses shall arrive shortly; we were scouting the area when we sensed…_ ” he trailed off, and as he did Harry’s eyes wandered to the broken bodies of Elves on the ground. “ _We came as soon as we could._ ”

 

“ _Of that, I’ve no doubt,_ ” Astaldir replied, his voice soft as he undoubtedly took in the carnage around them as well. But a moment later he was calling for the youngest male’s attention. “ _Heru Elerossë, it has been too long._ ”

 

Harry turned his gaze away from the still bleeding body of a dead elleth to meet the old elf’s compassionate hazel gaze. “ _Master Astaldir,_ ” he accepted the ancient’s warrior grip even as he bowed his head sorrowfully. “ _I am sorry we could not arrive sooner._ ”

 

A firm finger under his chin forced him to look up into Astaldir’s ancient eyes again. “ _I am sure you came as soon as you could, young warrior,_ ” he shook his head, and his light red—almost orange—warrior braids swung gently with the slight motion. “ _None can do more, and none can ask more; of themselves or anyone else. You have our thanks._ ” He leaned closer then, to speak softly into the wizard’s ear. “ _While ‘tis true that all still standing here owe you their lives, young prince, you cannot blame yourself for those who fell. Do you understand?_ ”

 

Harry held the ancient elves eyes for a long moment, before finally relenting, despite his heart not fully accepting it. “ _I understand, ancient one._ ”

 

A respectful address given to all elves that held the years to merit it; both of his parents answered to it rather often. But somehow it seemed to fit this Elf particularly well in that moment, for Harry felt so very young while meeting his eyes. And though he agreed with the ancient one’s words, he was sure that Asaldir could see that Celeborn and Galadriel’s son still blamed himself for not arriving sooner.

 

A suspicion the ancient all but confirmed when he sighed before releasing Harry’s chin and turning his gaze back to the Elven Lord. “ _We did not take enough care. These mountains are regularly patrolled by both Imladris and Lothlórien, yet ‘tis apparently not enough._ ”

 

“ _Will any patrols ever be enough?_ ” Celeborn wondered, his soft words dark. “ _The beasts breed like rats, their population swelling with each passing week, and they are full-grown vermin within a year of their birth._ ”

 

Harry had heard many such complaints before, though they confused him since he’d never seen a female Orc and thus the mechanics of how this happened eluded him. Orcs captured females—be they women, ellethes or Dwarrowdams—whenever they could for the horrific fate none could wish on their worst enemy, but surely somewhere they must have their own females hidden to account for the ever-growing population his father referred to?

 

The history of how their race came to be didn’t hint at that. But Harry could never bring himself to ask more on this particular topic. He was sure he wouldn’t like the answers.

 

“ _We must make haste, my lords,_ ” Haldir spoke up, drawing the leaders’ eyes to him. “ _This area is not safe._ ”

 

No, looking around, Harry had to agree with him. There were too many ledges overhead for enemy archers to perch upon, too many large boulders for creeping monsters to hide behind, and far too many wolves and Wargs in these parts for them to be comfortable besides.

 

Still, he had to frown as he glanced at the corpses again. Surely he couldn’t mean to leave the fallen forms of Elves lying beside their murderers?

 

“ _See to the wounded, Haldir,_ ” Celeborn ordered firmly, before meeting the other ancient’s eyes again. “ _Will you care for the dead, Astaldir?_ ”

 

The redhead immediately nodded. “ _Yes. Have no fear, Marchwarden. We shall leave shortly._ ”

 

Harry glanced first at Haldir’s form, then Astaldir, before looking back at his father, who was watching him. “Adar?”

 

Celeborn sighed, before wrapping an arm around his shoulders and turning him away from the mountains, away from the broken bodies. “ _Come with me, my son._ ”

 

~ * **_Caras Galadhon, Lothlórien,_**

**_Gwirith 15 th, 747 T.A. _*** ~

 

Ránewen reappeared in her telain with the ease of long practice. Though the books from her husband’s birth world indicated that apparition was a very difficult art to master, none of the Elves with budding magic could agree. Whether it was more a matter of maturity or simply the ability to focus one’s mind, instantaneous travel between one place to another for all ‘in the know’ had never been easier. Even when they worried; as all her family was as they’d wondered all afternoon at what, exactly, had merited her husband’s rapid departure.

 

The sight of the Elf-raised wizard staring at the sunset from the top of the tree that bore their home did only a little to reassure her. It meant that whatever had happened, he’d come through it safely and physically unharmed. But the pensive expression on his face as she climbed up beside him to perch on another high branch, along with the dark mood simmering from his end of their marital bond, worried her even more than the sudden departure from hours before had.

 

Still, she didn’t say anything just yet, instead picking up the wine glass he’d obviously carried up here with his own and filling it with the fine wine that’d also been placed carefully in the accommodating mellorn tree’s boughs. She filled her glass, glanced at her husband’s before setting the half-empty bottle back down. Then she followed his gaze into the distance to watch as, second by second, the sun sank deeper and deeper into the horizon.

 

The spectacular show this painted in the sky for all to see was a sight she imagined one could never tire of, even as her husband didn’t seem to be drawing any comfort from the view they’d watched with wine in hand hundreds of times since their wedding. Still, she stayed silent; sipping at her wine while he did the same as they studied the horizon.

 

It was predominantly red when she’d first arrived, but soon purple and then indigo as twilight dawned, until the stars finally started to dot the darkening skyscape. The tiny gems of Varda shimmered down at them for a long while, but it was only after Elerossë had finished his wine and refilled it, topping off her own, that he spoke.

 

“ _The caravan from Imladris was attacked in the mountains._ ”

 

“ _Orcs?_ ” she didn’t really need to ask, but there were few other things it could be that would dare to attack an entire caravan. Certainly not highwaymen, and a mere troll or wolf attack wouldn’t merit intervention from Lothlórien’s magical prince, nor the morose mood she found him in now.

 

“ _Yes._ ” Harry took another sip of wine before continuing. “ _We arrived as soon as we could, but almost a dozen died. One was barely a century older than the twins._ ”

 

Ránewen closed her eyes in a pained grimace, the thought of any Elf dead so young one none of their race could stomach without regret. “ _I am sure you did all you could, my love._ ”

 

He was silent another long moment, staring up at the stars with emerald eyes that she knew weren’t actually seeing the glorious heavens but instead the lifeless faces of the Elves he hadn’t been able to save. Finally he replied. “ _I could have saved some of them, at least, if I could use my magic more freely—_ ”

 

“ _You know why you can not._ ” Ránewen cut him off, catching and holding his gaze when her sharp tone drew it. “ _Impossibilities do not merit mention, my love. Nor should you let your thoughts dwell so long on them._ ”

 

Harry shook his head. “ _That was the safest road between here and Imladris; and so close to our borders that the Marchwardens routinely patrol the very foothills where the caravan came under attack. When my sister’s family visits for more than a few hours, they must traverse that path. As must my parents, to visit Elrond’s realm._ ” He closed his eyes. “ _The bodies awaiting funeral tomorrow could have been theirs._ ”

 

“ _Arwen and Elladan and Elrohir are safe. Celebrían is safe. Elrond, your parents and I are as well. Please, do not dwell on depressing ‘maybe’s’, my love. Such thoughts only bring unnecessary pain._ ”

 

Normally such pleas would merit almost instantaneous agreement, but this time her husband’s expression stayed darkly pensive for several long seconds. Then he shook his head. “ _It is important, beloved, that we always prepare for the worst. Otherwise it could come to pass with us unprepared for its eventuality, and the loss we’d experience then would inflict far more pain than the imaginings of such an event ever could._ ”

 

Ránewen could not argue with that statement, much as she hated watching her husband in pain of any kind. But all she could offer now was any help it might be possible for her to provide. “ _What can I do, Elerossë?_ ”

 

His name falling from her lips immediately drew her husband’s gaze again. It was so rare for them to actually use each other’s names rather than endearments or all kinds, but the serious conversation deserved it. Their eyes stayed locked longer than she bothered to count, but finally he nodded. “ _There is little I can do for those who cannot know of my existence, but I will do all I can regardless. And our family, especially, will have at it’s disposal every advantage I can provide._ ”

 

“ _We can provide,_ ” Ránewen interjected, though both statements really went without saying and a small smile _finally_ turned up the corners of her husband’s lips as he nodded again.

 

“ _At the very least, I want everyone to carry a portkey that can carry them to safety should the worst happen._ ”

 

She could not argue with that precaution, it was sensible and might one day prevent utter disaster. Still, such portkeys required a great deal of forethought; for they had to be constructed of materials that could contain the imbedding of the powerful spell that could create a permanent Portkey and hold it indefinitely. “ _I will speak with the smiths then, my love. I am certain they can start creating proper pieces at once._ ”

 

“ _The sooner the better,_ ” he agreed, and it made Ránewen sigh, her dark hair shimmering back and forth as she shook her head.

 

“ _You can’t protect everyone, my love._ ” She watcher her husband’s jaw clench in response, locked in a stubborn line for several seconds, before he finally forced his lips apart to reply. “ _No matter how much you want to._ ”

 

“ _I can try._ ”

 

~ * **_Caras Galadhon, Lothlórien,_**

**_Narbeleth 2 nd, 748 T.A. _*** ~

 

Harry glanced towards the book, curious when he felt the slight twinge of magic that told him something had changed in its pages. He’d made the book not long after he and Ránewen had left the Shire—and their ‘mortal lives’—behind several decades before. It existed for one purpose, which was to help him fulfill his promise to Turambar, and look after Gondor’s royal family.

 

It had been an interesting project to work on, though it’d fascinated Celeborn much more than it had him. His father, for some reason, _loved_ fiddling with runes. Harry liked using them—they could fulfill many purposes. But Celeborn just loved _playing_ with them. Not really for the purpose of making anything and serving any need, but for the elaborate formulas themselves. It was something his mother always seemed amused by, and something everyone else in the family—Harry included—had given up on trying to comprehend years ago...

 

But the twinge he’d just felt was a notification, set in the book to send at him every time something significant happened in Gondor, to tell him to check its pages and see what was going on. And set to keep trying to bother him until he responded, just in case he was initially out of range—as was more than possible. Popping over to Imladris or the Shire for a few minutes was, of course, not at all beyond him.

 

So he made his way over to the bookcase it was kept in, pulled it out and opened it up, idly flipping through the most recent pages—mostly containing updates that the book hadn’t deemed important enough to demand his attention.

 

Until he came to the two most recent entries and froze.

 

*

**_King Atanatar, son of Turambar: DECEASED._ **

**_Narbeleth 2 nd, 748 T.A._ **

**_Cause: Stroke._ **

**_*_ **

**_The Coronation of_ **

**_Sirondil, son of Atanatar_ **

**_Scheduled for Hithui 3 rd._ **

**_*_ **

 

Later, he would wonder how the runes his father had crafted could possibly be so specific that they’d know that Atanatar had died from a stroke: a medical malady even the wisest of Elves didn’t yet know how to diagnose, as devices like the X-rays he vaguely remembered from Earth were wonders of Muggle science, not Wizard magic, and thus not something he could remotely bring into being here as he didn't really understand how they worked, let alone how they were made. [3]

 

But now he could only mourn the man that he’d never really seen outside of Turambar’s shadow.

 

And hate himself, for promises he hadn’t been able to fulfill the way he’d wanted to. The way he really should have…

 

~ * **_Osgiliath, Gondor,_**

**_Hithui 3 rd, 748 T.A. _*** ~

****

“Long Live the King!” would ring through the city for days to come, but that first hail; when all of Osgiliath—symbolically all of Gondor—was meant to greet their new king, was a particularly poignant chorus.

 

For Harry, it’d been a strange sight to behold. Though he and his family hadn’t attended the coronation in any official capacity, their fine clothes had led to most of the common folk giving way to their group, and so they’d had a good view of the new ruler when the crown had been set atop his head.

 

He looked a little like Turambar: in color, if not in features. Unsurprising, since he was the man’s grandson. But he bore a far stronger resemblance to Lindethiél, Turambar’s beloved wife of 188 years, who’d died in her sleep six years before her husband’s eyes closed forever. Her death had come as a shock to all, for the woman had never suffered a day of ill health in her life, but it’d struck Turambar especially hard. Still, Lindethiél had been beautiful to her dying day, with a classically formed face that captivated many because it was always smiling. Those classical features formed the plains of her grandson’s face. Though his crooked—perhaps at some point broken—nose that hadn’t come from either of his paternal grandparents.

 

“ _Do you want to go now?_ ” Ránewen murmured into his ear, and Harry had to blink his way out of his thoughts.

 

He met her concerned violet eyes steadily for a moment, and then shook his head and also spoke softly, not wanting to draw any wary ears to their Elvish-speaking tongues. “ _No. I need to visit my friend first._ ”

 

His wife studied him for another long moment, before she finally nodded. “ _We will wait here at the celebration for you. Take all the time you need._ ”

 

“Thank you, my love,” he gave her a warm smile, before gently kissing her lips. Then he pulled away, waving off his wife’s cousins when they frowned at him.

 

Though the pair hated to leave him unguarded, none would deny that his wife and the children needed warriors watching their backs much more then he did. However young most Elven warriors thought him, none would deny that he _was_ a warrior. And those that knew him as a wizard as well knew he could be very, very dangerous when he wanted to be. Even without his magic, he was deadly, but with it he was peerless.

 

What’s more, one didn’t really need to worry today. Though pickpockets might still be at work, their hands were easily dodged, and even the criminals were celebrating the crowning of their new king today; if for no other reason than it gave them an excuse to drink and revel unhindered all day long.

 

And the closer he got to his destination, the quieter it became.

 

The Royal Tombs were a place of mourning, and all who walked those sad paths did so on soft feet with meditative expressions.

 

It seemed to take no time at all before he was standing in front of his friend’s resting place, staring at the copy of Turambar’s visage carved craftily into the stone surface. This wasn’t the old man who’d had trouble seeing though. No, the face those who came to see him saw now was the victorious warrior-king who’d returned from the East to a hero’s welcome. They’d even carved his armor into the surface rather than courtly attire, a bemusing sight since the king had almost never worn the full set. Though he’d never grumbled overmuch about wearing armor for safety’s sake, he’d hated the ceremonial armor he was expected to wear for parades and the like, frequently comparing it to jewelry. Harry had to wonder if they’d actually buried the old king in that always hated attire…

 

“Not many visit this grave these days.”

 

Harry actually started, just barely keeping himself from reaching for a weapon as he turned towards the man that’d somehow come to be just a few steps behind him without him noticing. Yet that quick glance was enough to make Harry turn all the way around and offer a courteous, though shallow, bow. “My apologies, your highness. May I take my leave?”

 

Although Harry did not recognize the young man, per say, his resemblance to Turambar was so strong that he _had_ to be a member of the royal family. He looked more like the man whose grave they were standing beside then the king who’d just been crowned. Had his hair been a touch darker and his lips a tad fuller, he could’ve passed for Turambar’s twin back on the day Harry had first met the man. Especially around his eyes: the same sharp shade of silver; and as cleverly curious as Turambar’s had ever been.

 

“No need to leave on my account,” the royal waved him off, though now he was frowning. “But I don’t believe we’ve met?”

 

Harry shook his head. “We have not, your highness. I have not been to Osgiliath in years.”

 

“And I rarely leave it; though I far prefer Pelagir,” the man admitted, before offering a small smile and an obvious glance at the grave Harry had been studying. “So is it by my resemblance to a man dead almost eighty years that you recognize me? For I look little like my father.”

 

When asked about it later, Harry couldn’t quite name what made him do it. Whether it was weight of a promise made decades ago weighting down on him, too long forsaken and perhaps long overdue, or if it was the cool, stony surroundings and the sounds of celebration outside, or maybe it was just how much the prince looked like his father’s grandfather…

 

“You do look like him,” Harry indicated the entombed warrior, before nodding back to the prince. “But I recognize your medallion, my lord.”

 

Atanatar had worn the same Mithril pendant every day for decades after his father had given it to him. It was a little surprising to discover he hadn’t been buried with it, but then such heirlooms were precious to those that inherited them as well.

 

Surprise crossed the prince’s face as his hand hovered over the pendant in question and he glanced down at it. “This? My grandfather gave it to me,” he confessed, indicating the tomb a little ways away from Turambar’s own.

 

Harry nodded, “I only saw His Majesty a few times in public, but he was wearing that medallion every time. I believe King Turambar gave it to him?”

 

“He did,” the prince confirmed, glancing behind Harry for a second before his still curious silver eyes went back to the stranger in front of it. “You did not answer my question, sir. What brings you to the tomb of the new king’s grandfather? Most are still visiting King Atanatar’s grave, but only my family, some friends and the keepers tend to stop here.”

 

Harry looked away from those sharp silver eyes, so like the clever, curious gaze he remembered. “I know little of King Atanatar. Though he was a good sovereign, my family knew him no more than anyone else did about him.” He paused, but the still unnamed prince stayed silent for several moments, so then he went on, still not entirely sure why he was saying what he was. “But my grandfather talked of his time fighting in the East with King Turambar often. I have strong memories of him, though they’re decades gone as well.”

 

“Your grandfather?” the prince asked, much of his firmness giving way to intelligent curiosity again.

 

Harry paused for a brief moment, before nodding slowly and reaching up to pull out the medallion he was wearing. The very same medallion King Turambar had given him at the celebration when they’d returned to Gondor’s capital from the East in victory. He’d put it on this morning to honor his dead friend, but now it could serve another purpose, assuming the prince recognized it. “Sir Hadrian, son of Hames, my lord.” He lifted the medallion slightly, glancing down at it in thought, before looking at the prince again.

 

Said prince was visibly stunned, which meant the legends of Sir Hadrian had lived on long past his ‘death,’ with likely more borne from the tongues of gossips with too much time on their hands and soldiers reminiscing on—and embellishing tales told about—Turambar’s war.

 

Oh joy.

 

“I’d thought I should give it back,” Harry gestured to the tomb, making the prince blink his way out of his stupor. “I was going to leave it here, but I guess that practice isn’t upheld anymore?”

 

“Oh—no, it is. But everything left here to honor the fallen kings is collected by the tomb keepers every once and a while,” the man shrugged. “And as I said, not many visit King Turambar’s grave these days.” Then he cocked his head to the side, curiosity shining even more brightly in his silver gaze. “You’re really Sir Hadrian’s grandson? I didn’t realize he had a son?”

 

No, he’d never played that particular ruse. Though perhaps he should have…

 

Still, there were ways around that.

 

“He didn’t.” Harry shook his head with another shrug. “My mother, Lily, was his only child.” He gave a rueful smile, “I guess he might’ve kept her a secret though. As I understand it, he didn’t want her pulled into ‘court politics.’ He was always grumbling about that. Before he…”

 

There he trailed off, letting an uncomfortable silence settle, and it made the prince shuffle his feet.

 

But after a few more moment’s pause, the prince finally asked, “What happened to him? And Lady Raina? I remember my grandfather sent soldiers to the Halfling’s Shire looking for them, but no one knew where they’d gone.”

 

Harry winced; though he’d suspected Atanatar might not take the loss of his unofficial advisor well, hearing it for a fact made it worse. But he had to keep talking if he wanted to know anything about Turambar’s remaining family…

 

“That might’ve been because of me? My grandparents came to live with mother after my father’s death.” He shook his head. “I don’t remember much of that, though. I was very young when my parents died.”

 

“Your parents? Your mother died as well then?” the prince asked, and there was real sympathy in his gaze.

 

Harry nodded again, not needing to feign discomfort as he kept trying to bend the truths of his past to fit a convincing back-story. “She died not long after my father. Just like grandma; she always said she wouldn’t outlast grandpa by long.”

 

Ránewen had said that to Harry more than once; even a few times in front of Turambar and members of his family. So it was a tidbit that should lend credence to his ‘story.’

 

“Your grandparents are dead as well then?”

 

Harry nodded, grimacing and glancing back at the tomb of his long dead friend. Then he pulled his ‘knighthood’ medallion off decisively, and started to walk closer to the tomb.

 

“No, wait!” the prince said sharply; not quite an order. There was too much appeal and not enough authority in the tone. “You should keep it.”

 

Harry stopped, turning back to the prince. “But I—”

 

“Such medals are meant to be kept as family heirlooms, my friend. So that their ancestor's honor is remembered. They’re forged with that in mind.”

 

He let himself visibly consider the point for a long moment, before nodding and slowly putting the necklace around his neck and tucking the medallion down his shirt again. Truthfully, this gift his now long-dead friend had forced on him over ### years ago wasn’t something he’d wanted to part with, but it’d somehow seemed right to consider it after the news of Atanatar’s death came to him.

 

And then the mortal was talking again, gesturing towards the burial ground’s entrance. “Come, we should both be at the celebrations. My father will want to meet you more than anyone else who’s come to his coronation, I think.”

 

So this _was_ Siriondil’s son. Harry had expected as much, but with the Dúnedain one could never tell if it was son or grandson or great-grandson they were talking to. It wasn’t so different among the Elves, of course; but the last elfling borne on Middle Earth was Arwen, and even before that the treasured gift of children was rare amongst the Elves. So everyone sort of knew who everyone else was; the youths especially.

 

“I don’t think—”

 

“I insist,” the man said, voice now firm with the authority it’d lacked seconds before as he grabbed hold of Harry’s shoulder to start dragging him away. “What’s your name, by the way?”

 

“Haden, son of Sirius, my lord.” Harry replied, having decided on this ‘new name’ some time before, despite the fact he hadn’t intended to stumble across any royals—it never hurt to come prepared.

 

“Pleased to meet you, Haden. I’m Tarannon, son of Siriondil.”

 

That he was the new Crown Prince of Gondor apparently wasn’t worth mentioning.

 

Prying, pushy and unpretentious unless he needed to be to get his way: Yes, this was definitely a descendent of Turambar.

 

Harry had to wonder what the others were like.

 

~ * **_Harry’s House, The Shire,_**

**_Nórui 21 st, 749 T.A. _*** ~

 

Harry raised an unimpressed eyebrow at the innocent expressions that were being directed his way. “ _I was in Imladris the day you two were born, you know. I’m more than used to your tricks._ ”

 

“ _Tricks?_ ” Elrohir gave him an offended look that perfectly matched the one on Elladan’s face as well.

 

“ _What tricks?_ ”

 

“ _We’re here to learn, uncle._ ”

 

“ _Lest you're forgetting?_ ”

 

“ _In your old age?_ ”

 

Harry shook his head. “ _No, my memories are quite clear. Thank you. You will play no pranks today. Do you understand?_ ”

 

“ _Yes, yes, we understand,_ ” Elladan agreed with an exasperated nod.

 

“ _It’s not like we could get away with much here anyway,_ ” Elrohir commented, looking around.

 

Elladan nodded. “ _Yes, we do stand out even more here than we do amongst Men, don’t we?_ ”

 

“ _And here we thought that’d be hard to outdo._ ”

 

“ _The difference in height is a bit noticeable,_ ” Harry agreed, smirking slightly, before forcing himself to look serious again. “ _Remember your promise to your mother._ ”

 

Both twins winced at the reminder. As much as they loved to have fun, they’d never do it as the expense of their mother’s good opinion. And Celebrian’s reminder about representing the Elves well while amongst the Hobbits tonight had been very pointed. Deliberately so.

 

She made such deliberate requests only rarely, and they hadn’t yet failed.

 

“ _This is an important festival for the Hobbits._ ” Harry told them, though he was now repeating himself for what might well be the twelfth time. “ _There will be plenty for you to entertain yourselves with, and plenty of men to blend in amongst._ ”

 

“ _And blend in well we shall,_ ” Elladan commended, indicating the illusion-medallion he always wore while amongst Men. “ _If there are any Men there. These don’t do much about the height difference._ ”

 

“ _There will be Men there,_ ” Harry replied. “ _For the nearby villages and regions tradesmen this is an important event as well._ ”

 

“ _I still don’t see why we have to look like such young Men,_ ” Elrohir commented, frowning at his reflection in the nearby mirror. “ _We are mature adults now, you know, uncle._ ”

 

“ _That’s really a matter of opinion,_ ” Harry commented, before grabbing each of their elbows. “ _Come on._ ”

 

A twist of will and then they’d gone from Imladris to Harry’s House in Hobbiton, which the Hobbits still kept in excellent repair. The sounds of revelry outside were enough to still the twins’ tongues for just a moment, while their uncle released their elbows and led the way to the door.

 

Only to stop as soon he opened it.

 

For standing outside was an old Hobbit. Very old, in appearance and in fact, Harry realized as soon as he recognized him.

 

“Buffo?”

 

“And good eve’ to you, too, old friend,” the former Mayor of Shire—some decades past—replied with a wide grin that revealed much older teeth then Harry remembered in a smile that was missing more than a few. “I’d wondered when you might be coming back to the Shire again. You picked a fine night for it, of course. And who might these strapping lads be?”

 

Harry stepped to the side as the old Hobbit strolled in on rickety legs and even more rickety-looking cane, closing the door behind him as Elladan offered the old Hobbit a chair and Elrohir hovered just a few step away in case the long-past-his-prime Halfling couldn’t make it all the way there.

 

But Buffo Boffin was nothing if not stubborn, and somehow it didn’t surprise Harry: not only that he’d made it to the chair, but that he was still up and walking around now. Decades older than most Hobbits made it through.

 

Too stubborn to die.

 

Though the tonics and such that Ránewen had sent him for a very long time—and maybe still was?—through the box might have something to do with it too.

 

One Buffo had sat down, his wrinkled face twisted into an expectant look for Harry, and the wizard hurried to finally respond to the Hobbits question.

 

“These are my sister’s sons, Buffo. My nephews.”

 

No names.

 

Harry didn’t want to lie to another old friend so close to their deathbed.

 

And thankfully Buffo accepted that explanation with an easy nod. “Well, I’m sure they came for the festival, not to hover over some old Hobbit. Go on now, lads. Have fun.”

 

Harry nodded when the twins both gave him inquisitive glances, holding the door open for them to leave, and hoping all the reminders about good behavior he’d already given them would last long enough for them to find something interesting enough to keep them occupied with something other than brewing pranks. After closing the door behind him, he made his way over to the kitchen, quickly filling the teapot there with a tap of his wand, heating the water with another tap and then adding the tea to it. A flick of his wand brought the sugar over to the tray—as he knew Buffo always added a lot—and then another tap of his wand filled the creamer with fresh cream.

 

“The youngun’s have kept the old place in good stock, yeah? Not just clean?” Buffo asked him as he carried the tray over. “Oh no, looks like they’ve forgotten tea cakes. For shame—”

 

“No, no one forgot anything, Buffo,” Harry chided him with a smile as he summoned some lembas bread from his bottomless pocket and enlarged it on the tray. “That’ll do, I’m sure?”

 

“Indeed it will for me,” the Hobbit agreed as he started preparing his tea and took a piece of the Elvish way bread for himself. “But my grandson, Bilban, ‘e’s supposed to be keeping your place ready for company at any time. Have ta have a chat with him some time soon.”

 

“It all seems to be in order to me,” Harry replied after a glance around.

 

As far as he could see everything was almost as clean and tidy as it’d been when he and Ránewen were still living here. Impressive, when one considered the fact that the Hobbits couldn’t magically banish messes away or make dishes clean and put themselves away with a flick of a wand. Only a few things were exactly where he and Ránewen would’ve put them: but they had been gone from here for almost _##_ years, save for the few times they’d apparated over themselves to hide here for a day or just straighten everything up themselves.

 

“Tidy, yes,” Buffo agreed, taking a bit of lembas before continuing. “But in order? Bah! One or two Hobbits could clean that pantry out in a day.”

 

Harry laughed, “As I recall, that was the case when I lived here, too.”

 

“Well it just doesn’t do to leave it like that,” Buffo shook his head. “Not when this is the Guest House for all the Shire.”

 

“And is the Shire really getting so many guests these days?” Harry asked, knowing all the people at the festival outside didn’t count. They were set to camp the night outside and leave in the morning, as they did every year.

 

“Oh a few, every now and again.” Buffo shrugged, sipping his tea after he’d finished his lembas off. “It’s the principle of the matter now, Hadrian.” He brought his cup to his lips again, drinking deeply. When he noticed Harry’s raised eyebrow—surprised that the hobbit would rush his tea time at all—he said, “Best drink up, old friend. Fireworks will be starting soon.”

 

Harry nodded, wincing a little as he imagined the mischief his nephews could get into with fireworks and quickly draining his teacup, waiting till Buffo was done as well before spelling the tea set clean and banishing it back to the kitchen. “Shall we?” he asked, offering his hand to help his friend stand.

 

“I’m old, not dead, Hadrian. I’ve still got legs.”

 

Harry nodded, withdrawing his hand and instead leading the way over to the door to hold it open for his friend. Then he had to blink as he saw the nephews he was worried about were waiting for them at the end of the path, watching the lights of the nearby festival with curious eyes. “You two could’ve gone on ahead, you know.”

 

“We know, uncle,” Elladan agreed, giving him a grin that his twin matched.

 

“But we thought it best to wait here.”

 

“That way no, uh, mischief taking place can be blamed on us.”

 

Harry raised his eyebrows, surprised his warnings had been taken so much to heart. Then again, Celebrían had had a good long talk with the pair about visiting the Shire before they’d left.

 

“Oh, pranksters, are you?” Buffo asked with a smile as he hobbled through the doorway and then on down the path, nodding his thanks when Elrohir held the gate at the end open for him. “Well, don’t worry. The Shire’s got more ‘an a few of its own. None of ‘em ever managed to get your uncle though.”

 

“No one does,” Elladan grumbled, earning an amused look from Harry.

 

All four stopped as a strange sound split the air in the distance, then smiled as a burst of light lit up the sky.

 

“Ah, the fireworks have started,” Buffo said unnecessarily, grinning at them. Then he raised an eyebrow at Harry. “Don’t ‘spose you’d save us the walk?”

 

Harry arched an eyebrow at him now, but relented under the influence of the three grins directed his way, gesturing for the brothers to come closer as he stepped up alongside his friend.

 

Well-practiced in side-along apparition—even though they could do it on their own, Harry was still better at it, and they weren’t allowed to do it outside of the Elven realms and emergencies—the twins locked elbows together, then caught one of his elbows while Harry reached down to gently grasp the former mayor’s shoulder.

 

“As you may remember,” Harry warned the Halfling, “This will feel a bit weird.” Not waiting for a response, he called up his magic and jerked them away, speeding through the tunnel his power made through space to land limberly a second later in the outskirts of the forest the festival was in full swing besides. He hadn’t needed anything other intent for this particular magic, or many others, in quite a while. But he was still careful to make sure his aged friend had found his feet before he let the Hobbit go.

 

Buffo laughed as he caught his breath, “Well, that was every bit as disconcerting as I remember. But convenient, nonetheless. Thank you.”

 

Harry nodded, then they all looked up as several more fireworks were shot off and burst into flowers of fire in the sky.

 

“I should be getting back to my own family now,” Buffo sighed, before nodding up at him. “But it was good seeing you, Hadrian.”

 

“And you, my friend,” Harry returned the nod. As his friend went one way, he turned to his nephews, “So? Where to first?”

 

It was, perhaps, a bad idea to give the two command of where they went, but this trip was much for them then it was for him. So he followed them through the stands, paying for everything they cared to try with a smile. The pair remained on their best behavior all night, so it was very easy to indulge them under the light of the fireworks that illuminated the sky every few minutes.

 

It was when they were on their way back to the edge of the forest, to head home, however, that the biggest surprise of the night struck.

 

Harry blinked as a familiar falcon swooped into sight, settling on his immediately offered arm an instant later. “ _Arlie, what brings you so far from Gondor?_ ” he asked, even as he untied the letter bound to the exhausted bird’s leg.

 

Though this particular falcon wasn’t one of the one’s he’d personally trained for Gondor’s royal family—as all those birds were long dead—he was a descendent of them, and had been raised to serve the same purpose. An impressive feat, since Harry hadn’t really told any of the Gondorians how he’d trained the winged-messengers because much of it was tied to his own magic and the simple fact that all creatures were fond of the Elves.

 

But he didn’t expect an answer back from the bird itself; though it was a clever creature it was not a wizard’s familiar and hadn’t been raised amongst magic or the Elves to inspire further intelligence than what it’d already been born with. So he handed the bird off to an amused Elrohir—simple because that particular nephew was a few steps closer than his twin—before unrolling the message.

 

It took his eyes barely a moment to scan the hastily penned message from Tarannon, and that same time was all it took for all good humor to flee his face so that serious concern could take its place.

 

~ * **_Osgiliath, Gondor,_**

**_Nórui 24 th, 749 T.A. * ~_ **

****

Harry shook his head firmly and met the king’s eyes steadily. “I seek no reward, Your Majesty. A friend asked me for help, I was happy to give it.”

 

“My good man, surely there is something Gondor can offer you?” Siriondil objected, the frown on his face decidedly out of place.

 

The disguised wizard shook his head again. “Many thanks, Your Majesty, but I need—and want—nothing.”

 

Seeing more than a few of the royals were ready to object, he hurried on.

 

“Though I do think it wise that your advisors consider what, exactly, the Black Númenóreans hoped to gain from this. Had Prince Tarannon’s letter not reached me so quickly, and had Prince Earnil’s captors not made the mistake of passing through Elven lands as they made their escape, I cannot say I would have been able to find him before they reached Umbar.”

 

“An excellent question, my king,” one of the old councilor’s who’d been watching from near the wall spoke into the silence a second later, a flood of agreeing murmurs following him.

 

But the next voice to speak was an angry one.

 

“The pirates must pay for this!” an unfamiliar voice snarled, and Harry glanced in his direction, not entirely surprised to see a younger Turambar-lookalike frowning from beside the woman who was still clutching the recently rescued prince.

 

“Calm, Tarciryan,” King Siriondil raised a placating hand, authority ringing through his voice as he eyed his younger son. “We have no way of knowing who in Umbar ordered this.”

 

Tarannon frowned at his father, speaking up before his brother could. “The men that did this must have been mercenaries of the highest order, my king; the sort that only the leaders of Umbar could employ.”

 

The same old councilor from before spoke up then, “And the fact that they were halfway to Umbar only bears that out, Your Majesty. Had they merely intended to hold the prince for ransom they never would’ve needed to take him so far.”

 

King Siriondil sighed, “You’re right, Lord Gregoir. But we cannot prove it, and we cannot declare war—”

 

“Why in Eru’s name not?!” Tarciryan demanded, drawing frowns from all around the room, though his father didn’t seem either surprised or offended.

 

“Tarciryan, your outrage is not without cause. But we cannot go to war now.”

 

The younger prince opened his mouth to reply, but then stopped as his wife’s hand caught his own, his expression softening as he met her gaze. Clearly the descendants of Turambar were guided by respect and love for their wives just as their forefather had been. Likely something that irritated some of the more patriarchal courtiers, but also something Harry could appreciate as it made them similar to Elves, similar to him.

 

These comments begged the question of why Gondor couldn’t afford war with Umbar, but the answers weren’t hard to imagine. It’d taken Turambar years to amass an army capable of handling the Easterlings, and in the first years of the war reinforcements were still being called in constantly. And the people of Umbar were not the Tribes of the East.

 

Though divided among a few nations, each southern nation had considerable military power to bring to bear, and that was without taking their ‘navy’ into account. Calling hundreds of pirate ships a ‘navy’ might seem odd, but those ships pestered the coasts of the northern lands constantly; Gondor especially but sometimes even the Elves who lived in the coastal realm of Lindon. The pirates were criminals and ruffians, but they were also quite experienced in their craft, and all the leaders of the lands they came from had to do was promise profit to gain their loyalty for a time. Gondor’s navy was small and very inexperienced: inconsequential by comparison, which was why the Elves of Lindon were so rarely troubled by the pirates. Unlike the Gondorians they had a navy that could give the pirates trouble and then some. Of course, it helped that the immortal nation never _needed_ to train new sailors: though their diminishing population—as more than half their population in the last millennium had made the journey West—did complicate that.

 

“Yes, father,” Tarciryan sighed, his shoulders sagging as he unhappily agreed with his king’s assessment of the situation.

 

His elder sibling, however, was not so according. “Father, this cannot be left unchallenged.”

 

“It shan’t,” Siriondil nodded, a dark shadow passing over his face for a moment, but clearing as he finally looked back at Harry. “You are far too modest, young Master Haden. As you have certainly lived up to your grandfather’s memory, might you at least consider accepting the rank he once held?”

 

Harry had to force his face to remain neutral, knowing a grimace wouldn’t be a great response to that query. But it wasn’t easy; as something he’d struggled so long against the king’s forefather reared its head _again_. Hopefully Siriondil would be a little less headstrong than Turambar had been on the matter.

 

“Your Majesty, I am always happy to help where I can, but—”

 

Siriondil cut him off, “As a knight of Gondor you would not be bound to court life; I understand that is something you wish to avoid much as your grandfather once did. The title merely acknowledges your merit, my young friend, little more.”

 

Oh, it did much more than that. That title had led to King Atanatar constantly writing for advice on countless things after his father’s death. And during Turambar’s reign it’d led to almost all courtiers trying to get him to side with them in issues of all sorts at least once.

 

But that was something that _Hadrian_ would know. Not _Haden_.

 

And if he wanted to help Turambar’s descendants…

 

Harry shook himself out of his thoughts, finally meeting the king’s gaze again, not blinking as he saw the eyes of his dead friend staring back at him, full of life and will. “Under those terms, Your Majesty, I believe I could serve for a time.”

 

“Very good then,” Siriondil smiled, ignoring the discontents mutters of a few of the counselors who didn’t like ‘Haden’s’ reluctant in accepting this honor as he drew his ceremonial sword. “I dub thee Sir Haden,” he tapped each of Harry’s shoulders with the blade, before sheathing it again and holding out his hand. “Now rise a knight of Gondor, Sir Haden.”

 

It seemed this was a title he wasn’t going to escape in Gondor.

 

~ * **_Osgiliath, Gondor,_**

**_Lothron 5 th, 752 T.A. _*** ~

 

Gondor's capital had its own sort of beauty, but like most of the world it was at its best in the last spring and early summer; with warm weather the flowers were blooming and the people tended to be in good cheer. There was also a certain amount of vitality to it that the immortal realms lacked; whereas the Eldar seemed to have endless patience and rarely any need to do anything _right now_ , the mortal races of Middle Earth were at least subconsciously aware that their time was not so unlimited. Harry had wondered more than once if he'd find his childhood home so distinctly paced. Then again, when he returned there he'd be mortal again, and no longer a child, so maybe it was to be expected.

 

"Sir Haden!" an unfamiliar voice called out from behind him. "Sir Haden!"

 

And it wasn't until that second call that Harry remembered that _that_ was his name here. Fortunately, in the busy marketplace he could reasonably pretend he'd only just heard the stranger as he turned around with a curious surprise fixed on his face as he wondered who'd be calling to him here. It took him only that first glance to recognize the lad, though he'd grown a foot since the last time Harry had seen him.

 

"Prince Eärnil, good morning," Harry bowed that careful bow that his own father had drilled into him; neither too deep nor too shallow, before he offered the teenager a polite smile. "May I be of service?"

 

The now sixteen-year-old prince of Gondor—third in line after his uncle and father, lest his unmarried father ever had children—fought to catch his breath as he stopped, though he was smiling widely. "I thought that was you! What are you doing back in the White City?"

 

It wasn't an unreasonable question. Harry had made a point of not visiting the capital of Gondor anymore than he really had to in this 'life time,' because he didn't want the current royal family to develop the same dependence Turambar's children had without Harry noticing till it'd already happened. So he was careful not to call on the royals too frequently, but having accepted the knighthood the current king had forced on him only slightly more delicately than his ancestor had, 'Sir Haden' could yet be summoned and expected to answer that summons.

 

"His Majesty bid me to attend a council session in a few days times, your highness," Harry spread his hands. "So here I am." He looked the lad up and down, politely ignoring the royal guards that'd only just managed to catch up to their fleet-footed charge. "You've grown a great deal since last we met."

 

"When you saved me from the pirates," the prince nodded, still smiling. "That was three years ago. I'm sixteen now." He finished with all the pride one would expect of a youth who'd reached an important age by society's standards.

 

At sixteen, he would've started his martial training in earnest. As a prince of Gondor he would've had some training with blades as part of his royal education already, but the Gondorian royals and nobles tried to shelter their children from the dangerous realities of the world they lived in at least until they'd reached their sixteenth year. The age of majority for mortal men on Middle Earth. Considering what'd happened when the prince was barely a teenager, though, Harry wouldn't have been surprised if his family had tried to shelter him longer—but the sheathed blade that hung from his belt and the white-tree emblazoned chain-mail he wore proved that wasn't the case.

 

"Congratulations," the wizard offered sincerely, not letting his amusement at the excited prince's clear pride—or the royal guards relief when they realize who the armed stranger said prince had run after was—show on his face.

 

"Thanks," Earnil nodded, still smiling for a proud moment, before curiosity took pride's place. "Grandfather hadn't told us to expect you in the Great Hall?"

 

Harry smiled kindly, "I'm sure His Majesty bid many come to offer what council they could, but I would not expect the royal family to house us all beneath the Dome of Stars."

 

"Well no, not all," the prince shook his head, and his curiosity had given way to a frown. "But you must stay as our guest, of course."

 

"Really that's not—"

 

"I must insist," Eärnil interrupted him, sounding so grave that it made him look years older for a moment. Though his youth returned with a teasing grin as he added; "Mother and Father would never forgive me if I left you to find lodgings at a tavern or some such place. Come," the prince took hold of his arm and started dragging him along towards the capital's heart, where the royal family made their home. "Mother will be thrilled to see you—she never got the chance to thank you after you brought me back, you know."

 

And so, despite his best efforts, Harry somehow found himself intermingling with Gondor's royal family yet again...

 

~ * **_Telain o Elerossë, Caras Galadhon,_**

**_Cerveth 11 th, 800 T.A. _*** ~

 

Harry shook his head as he watched his wife removed her earrings to replace them with another set—again. This would be the fifth time in the last five minutes she’d switched.

 

And he knew it wasn't because any pair particularly bothered her sensitive ears—unlike the ladies of Gondor, his wife would never consider piercing her sensitive ears, but she didn't need the pinching clamp-on ones either; she had magic for that. In fact, many of the ladies of Lothlórien favored enchanted earrings for the same reason. An interest engendered by novelty, perhaps; but one that'd endured for a few decades already, and showed no sign of losing favor anytime soon.

 

“ _What are you so nervous about, melda nîn? This doesn’t mean we’re being banished, you know._ ”

 

“ _I know,_ ” Ránewen agreed with a sigh. “ _But it is important. You know it is._ ”

 

“ _Yes. But when have my parents ever cared about what jewels you’re wearing?_ ” When his wife frowned he quickly added, “ _You look lovely in all of them, of course._ ”

 

“ _Thank you,_ ” she replied, before coming into the lounge to sit on the chaise beside him with another sigh. “ _But do I look like a full-sorceress rather than an apprentice?_ ”

 

“ _You look like you, and today you are recognized as a full-sorceress in your own right, so yes, you look like a sorceress I’d say. And a lovelier one I’ve never seen._ ”

 

That earned him a laugh, but some of her nerves were still shadowing the corners of her mouth. “ _I’m not sure I’m—_ ”

 

“ _Would my mother declare your training complete if you weren’t ready?_ ”

 

“ _No._ ” Ránewen sighed. “ _But I’ve been her student nearly as long as we’ve been married._ ”

 

“ _Not really._ ” At her confused look he asked. “ _How many lessons have you had in the last decade? Compared to when you started training?_ ”

 

“ _Well, comparatively less, of course, but—_ ”

 

“ _But what?_ ” Harry raised an eyebrow at her. “ _Surely that means something?_ ”

 

“ _I’m an experienced apprentice, of course, but I’m not…_ ” Ránewen sighed. “ _I’m not Lady Galadriel._ ”

 

Harry laughed. “ _No, there’s only one of her._ ”

 

“ _I’m not sure Middle Earth, or any world, could survive another,_ ” Celeborn commented from the doorway, am amused expression on his face when the pair looked his way. “ _But we are each unique. Special in our own way. That is something to be celebrated, my dear. Not mourned._ ”

 

Ránewen nodded nervously, leaning closer as soon as Harry wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

 

“ _You can always come to us for guidance, young one. Both of you can._ ” Celeborn smiled as he crossed the room to sit in the chair across from them. “ _An acknowledgment of what you have accomplished does not change that. Nor should it._ ”

 

“ _I know, my lord._ ” Ránewen smiled tremulously. “ _It’s just…_ ”

 

“ _You are an elf,_ ” Celeborn pointed out gently. “ _Despite all our wisdom, change does not come easily to us. Yet that does not mean we should stagnate and stay ever unchanging._ ”

 

“ _It’d get awful boring,_ ” Harry remarked, earning grins from both elves.

 

“ _That it would,_ ion nîn.” Celeborn agreed, before glancing towards the door. “ _But we should be on our way._ ”

 

Ránewen stiffened, looking towards the clock. “ _Are we late? I thought—_ ”

 

“ _Not yet, no._ ” Celeborn rose, watching approvingly as Harry followed his example and then helped his wife stand. “ _But the time does dawn._ ” He bowed closer to smile at his daughter-in-law. “ _You have nothing to fear, dear Ránewen. Galadriel would not declare your training complete were it not true._ ”

 

“Uma, heru nîn.”

 

Celeborn nodded, before turning and leaving the telain as silently as he’d entered it.

 

Watching him go, it reminded Harry of just how deadly his scholarly father had proved to be on the battlefield, though the other memories of that same battle were not ones he wanted to dwell on, so he shook the thought from his head.

 

“ _Are you ready,_ melda nîn?” he asked his wife.

 

She gave him a small smile. “ _I hope so._ ”

 

~ * **_Osgiliath, Gondor,_**

**_Gwirith 13 th, 817 T.A. _*** ~

Harry was more diplomatic than most of the watching crowd as they watched the carriage carrying the bride-to-be—and the future crown-princess of Gondor—complete the journey to through the city to stop between the citadel and the white tree.

 

The din of whispers that’d preceded her approach and answered her arrival, though, were not hard to understand. For what woman wore black on her wedding day?

 

The customs of Middle Earth—or Gondor and the Elves, as least—were very similar to what Harry remembered from England on Earth. At the very least, he couldn’t remember a reason for a woman to wear the color of mourning on what was supposed to be the happiest day of her life.

 

Was the implication intended by the bride to be? Or some strange custom among the foreign nation that they did not know?

 

Whatever the case, many disapproving eyes followed the footsteps of Berúthiel, the Black Númenórean Princess who’s hand Prince Tarannon had had to accept, in exchange for peace with her people.

 

A bizarre thing: arranged marriages.

 

Harry knew they existed back on Earth. That they still did, in the Pureblood Wizarding culture for obvious reasons, as well as in other places for reasons of their own.

 

But to the Elves of Middle Earth the idea was positively blasphemous. Oh, some matches _were_ arranged, yes. But that arrangement was encouragement of the possibility: an actual wedding would never take place between two Elves that did not love each other.

 

Marriage without love.

 

Sacrificing the happiness of one’s life for the sake of their nation.

 

Two ideas the Elves could not understand at all, and never had.

 

“I heard tell that she’s a witch,” one man’s voice reached his sharp ears, and Harry glanced towards him in surprise. He was a courtier, judging by where he stood and his attire. But those two same things said he was a low-ranking one. Which was why he was standing closer to the common-folk than Harry himself was.

 

As a knight of Gondor— _again_ —Harry officially out-ranked many of the noblemen, something that did not sit well with them. Not that it had before, of course, when he’d been Turambar’s best friend as well. But at least then he’d also been a recognized hero of the war: not just someone who’d saved the king’s nephew from the very same people this marriage was uniting their nation with.

 

“She can’t be a witch,” another man replied, also a low-ranking courtier Harry had never been introduced to. “The prince wouldn’t marry a witch!”

 

“He would if the king told him to,” yet another busy-body in court clothes commented. “And why else would she have so many _cats?_ ” he gestured to the wagon that was carrying ten small cages for the tiny felines inside. Nine black and one white. “I mean, look at ‘em.”

 

Because liking cats meant a woman had to be a witch.

 

Harry fought the urge to roll his eyes as the wedding procession finally came to a stop when the bride stood before her groom.

 

“Well, I think she’s lovely,” Ránewen commented, voice soft enough to only reach his ear from where she whispered it right next to his shoulder.

 

Harry nodded in agreement.

 

Whether she was a spy, a woman with magical powers, or just a pawn born into a family that could wield her, Berúthiel was beautiful. The black hair currently wound up atop her head looked long enough to flow past her knees, and it shimmered softly even where it was only hair rather than the fine black-jewels woven in amongst her braids. Her skin was pale for her origins: like she hardly ever saw the sun, and utterly unmarred by imperfections of any kind. Not even a blush to stain her cheeks charmingly, though that’d likely have endeared her more to the crowd than the emotionless look frozen on her pretty face could.

 

The disparaging whispers made Harry want to pity the pretty princess, forced to wed someone she didn’t know so far from her home. But there was something about her that didn’t let him. Something he didn’t trust.

 

It was halfway through the ceremony when he finally gave into his vigilant curiosity and reached out with his Legilimency: a magical art that hadn’t been easy to fine-tune, but he’d still accomplished it under his mother’s guidance.

 

He reached towards the woman from the inland city somewhere south of Umbar (it’s exact location’s revelation hadn’t been worked into the agreement for this union, so Gondor still didn’t know exactly where it was), but while the thoughts of the royals around her were easy to read, she was not.

 

Her mind was blank.

 

 

Harry looked away, towards Tarannon, just before the bride’s dark, heavily make-up shadowed eyes turned away from her groom and towards the audience. Towards Harry and Ránewen.

 

She looked back at her father-in-law-to-be when the King of Gondor began asked for her oaths to her husband, but the fact that she’d looked towards Harry told him what he needed to know.

 

The woman did have magic.

 

Dark magic.

 

Harry looked around at the uneasy crowd watching the wedding.

 

How did they know?

 

Did they know? Or was it just easy to be suspicious of someone sent from a place that’d always been their enemies, and only happenstance that they happened to be right?

 

‘ _What’s wrong?_ ’ Ránewen’s mind brushed his when he’d obviously failed to respond to a look or signal of some sort she’d given him.

 

Harry didn’t let himself sigh as he replied the same way, though he was a little more careful than usual. Careful to be sure his response traveled down their bond and didn’t echo outside of it. ‘ _She’s a witch._ ’

 

His wife blinked, glancing between the bride and her caravan of cats with visible bewilderment. ‘ _What? That can’t be._ ’

 

‘ _But it is._ ’ Harry shook his head. ‘ _And the people of Gondor are right to be wary. Her magic is very, very dark._ ’

 

‘ _But I sense…_ ’ Ránewen trailed off as she, too, reached out with her senses. Not just the natural sixth sense that all Elves were born with, but the ability that Galadriel had spent centuries carefully teaching her how to use. ‘ _Impossible. How does she hide it so well?_ ’

 

‘ _Evil is often good at disguising itself. It has to be._ ’ Harry replied grimly as they watched the cold woman lower her head ever so slightly to accept the circlet King Sirondil placed upon it to mark her the future queen of Gondor. He frowned as the tangles of dark power around the woman shifted again, bending around the woman and then away from her like weeds or snakes. ‘ _But it’s not her. Her control is very…limited._ ’

 

Ránewen studied the mortal woman a moment, then nodded her agreement.

 

It was much less surprising then the fact that the woman had magic, that her control of it was obviously limited. And a great relief. Because it meant that her people weren’t masters of such arts. If they were, they would’ve sent someone who was, not just someone with limited abilities.

 

‘ _What will you do?_ ’ his wife asked.

 

Harry shook his head. ‘ _I don’t know._ ’

 

What could he do?

 

There were many reasons Gondor had had to accept this match. Reasons that hadn’t change, and probably wouldn’t for years to come. If at all.

 

War with the nation that lived primarily off of piracy and a thriving slave-trade simply wasn’t winnable at this point in time. And sending their princess home in disgrace was a sure way to invite that war.

 

Not that Harry could send the dark princess home. Even Tarannon couldn’t do that: not till his father died and he became king. And with the life-span of the Dúnedain that could be decades away.

 

All he could really do was keep an eye on her.

 

To do whatever he could.

 

‘ _Elerossë,_ ’ his wife’s horrified voice suddenly echoed through his mind, and he followed her gaze to the wagon of cats. ‘ _Those poor things. The spell she has on them—she’s keeping them as slaves!_ ’

 

Harry looked at the cats again then, this time pulling his magic up into his eyes—to see magic—and winced as he, too, saw the dark tendrils of terrible, evil power tormenting and imprisoning the poor creatures to her will.

 

Well, at the very least, that was one thing he could fix for sure.

 

~ * **_Caras Galadhon,_**

**_Lothron 16 th, 830 T.A. _*** ~

****

Harry shook his head as one of the cats—who’s names he still couldn’t keep straight—leapt up onto his desk and fixed him its wide green eyes on him. “ _And what do you want, little one?_ ”

 

_Meow_ , was the expected response, before the lithe black cat (now in much better shape: thanks to the doting care of Harry’s family and most of the Elves of the Golden Wood), lowered its head to rub it against his hand. It started purring as soon he obliged and started scratching behind its ears, shifting around to move his fingers to the right spot.

 

“ _It’s good to see you and Melmára getting along,_ ” Galadriel murmured as she entered, coming all the way over to his desk when the cat responded to her presence by immediately darting to the end of the desk and purring at her, purring even louder as she, too, obliged it by petting it.

 

Harry very deliberately didn’t say anything in response to that.

 

Truthfully he’d gotten used to the cats, and even liked a few of them: though he could only tell them apart from the others by the way they behaved around him. The black ones, at least. Serfána, with her white fur, was easy to tell apart from her black siblings.

 

It helped that the taint of dark magic around them had faded within hours of their removal from Gondor. Galadriel’s protective powers wouldn’t let the darkness cling to the tiny creatures. Even Ránewen had been having a hard time looking back at the darkness that’d held the little ones in thrall back in Gondor. Intellectually, they’d both known that the cats were under their mistress’s spells and that was why they felt so dark themselves up-close: the darkness couldn’t hide within creatures that were being controlled by it rather than allowing it inside themselves to wield it. It wasn’t in the nature of the tiny beings to wield magic, but they couldn’t resist it’s control either.

 

Still, that they were grateful to be free of Berúthiel was obvious from the moment they set foot in the Golden Wood: each and every one of them. They’d gone from being tiny, yowling demons trapped inside an enchanted cage to excitedly purring and docile as could be. All ten of them more than happy to accept Lothlórien as their new home and all the Galadhrim as their new masters.

 

“ _What’s on your mind, Nana?_ ” Harry finally asked her, watching bemusedly as his mother scooped the cat up in her arms and continued petting it even as her serious eyes met his.

 

“ _The King of Gondor has commissioned the creation of a navy, to protect Gondor’s shores._ ”

 

Harry nodded. “ _It’s about time,_ ” he shook his head. “ _With how dependent they are on trade by sea and fishing for food, much more so now then even half-a-century past, one would think they’d have been prepared to better defend their interests well before now._ ”

 

“ _Yes,_ ” Galadriel agreed with a soft sigh. “ _But the folks along the shore were long dependent on the Elves of Lindon for such protection. It was in Círdan’s interest to keep the seas safe, for each voyage West, when such ships left these shores often. But those times are long past, and the pirates know better than to attack Elven ships._ ”

 

“ _That doesn’t help the fishing villages on the coast._ ”

 

“ _No, it doesn’t._ ” Galadriel agreed, setting Melmára down and holding her hands out to him, pulling him to his feet as he accepted them. “ _But their security is not our responsibility._ ”

 

Harry grimaced as they moved out of his study and into the lounge, where three cats had already settled themselves in and Melmára was quick to join them. “ _Yet I’m sure Círdan is concerned by Gondor’s development nonetheless?_ ”

 

“ _He is, but you needn’t sound so disapproving,_ ion nîn. _Círdan must have care for the Elves of Lindon: they are his duty after all._ ”

 

Harry raised an eyebrow at her. “ _Then why are we talking about this?_ ”

 

“ _It would put Círdan’s mind at ease, to know exactly what Círdan plans for this navy. His son and heir is wed to a daughter of Black Númenóreans._ ”

 

“ _A match arranged for the sake of peace, with no love between the pair, nor children, whatsoever._ ” Harry shook his head. “ _I think Tarannon intends to send Berúthiel back to her kinsmen at the first opportunity he gets, he just hasn’t gotten the chance yet._ ”

 

“ _You think?_ ”

 

Harry sighed. “ _Tarannon is not Turambar, and I am in Gondor much less than I used to be._ ”

 

“ _That is true,_ ” Galadriel nodded. “ _Yet another complication in the costs of Eru’s gift to Men._ ”

 

“ _And of the charades I must play,_ ” he shook his head when she raised an eyebrow at him. “ _What? It’s true. Had I told Turambar the truth about me, or even just part of it, do you really think I wouldn’t be central to his grandson’s court now? Rather than on the sidelines: remnants of royal sentiment for generations past, as most courtiers are?_ ”

 

The Lady of Light actually laughed: only her laughter was wrong. Not the merry song-like sound he was used to. It was harsher, darkened by scorn and lacking all the light of good humor. “ _Oh, Elerossë, you are so very young yet,_ ” she shook her head. “ _Ion nîn, it is naïve to think the mortals would long accept an immortal in their midst. They never have before._ ”

 

Harry scowled. “ _Do you really think Turambar didn’t suspect that I was just that? He knew, we both know he did._ ”

 

“ _But he never admitted it,_ ” his mother pointed out. “ _And in that simple fact he showed so very much. He truly was a worthy friend to you._ ”

 

Harry blinked, “ _For letting me lie to him?_ ”

 

“ _For accepting what you could give him, and not demanding more, yes,_ ” she sighed as she sank down onto the chaise after gently shifting one of the black cats out of her way. “ _Sometimes a friend can do you no greater service._ ”

 

“ _You are the Lady of Light, mistress of the mind arts without equal,_ ” Harry shook his head. “ _Yet you think it best that I lie to my friends._ ”

 

His mother met his eyes then, and her gaze was fixedly serious as she caught his gaze. ‘ _Sometimes the truth must be kept hidden, my son. Sometimes, that is the best course of action. Even in the world you came to us from had many magicks for the keeping of secrets._ ’

 

Harry shook his head. “ _And for truth. Secrets and lies aren’t the same thing, Nana, and—_ ”

 

“ _And lies told to keep a secret that cannot be told are no more malicious then the secret itself is._ ” Galadriel replied firmly. “ _Even if they must be told to a friend._ ” She held up her hand to forestall him when he next opened his mouth. “ _King Turambar is dead, ion nîn. It does us no good arguing over what you should, or should not, have told him. The past cannot be changed._ ”

 

Harry nodded, not bothering to try arguing the fact that magic could change some things that’d happened: there was no point to the argument in this case.

 

“ _I know you regret not being able to help your friend more._ ”

 

“ _I failed him,_ ” Harry shook his head. “ _I should have been there for his son._ ”

 

“ _His son had no need for a wizard or an elf,_ ” Galadriel insisted gently. “ _The reign of King Atanatar was peaceful and prosperous, for the most part. Turambar’s War is still remembered by the Men of the East: some of whom still owe fealty to Gondor’s king as a result. The Men of the South have always taken to the sea, and were more commonly fishermen or tradesmen then pirates in the past._ ”

 

“ _In the past,_ ” Harry replied grimly. “ _Now they are such a threat that Turambar’s great-grandson is trapped in a loveless marriage to a woman from their nation who practices black magic._ ”

 

“ _Berúthiel of Umbar’s magic is barely worth noticing, ion nîn,_ ” Galadriel reassured him. “ _She has no real understanding of it. Nor does she have the means to master it._ ” She stroked a hand down one of the cat’s backs. “ _If she had, you would’ve had a much harder time rescuing these darlings shortly after their arrival in Gondor. And she has not replaced them._ ”

 

“ _She doesn’t dare repeat the rituals within the White City,_ ” Harry agreed, smiling slightly when one of the cats rolled onto their back, exposing its belly in a sign of complete trust to him. He obeyed it’s demand for a belly rub as he went on. “ _But she does suspect me._ ”

 

“ _Of course she does, though I doubt she knows exactly why._ ” Galadriel shook her head. “ _Her magic is weak, but it does not take much magic to recognize one who has much more of it then you do._ ” At the surprised look he gave her, she smiled slightly. “ _Not that she knows that, consciously, of course: but that is why she fears you: and Ránewen, too._ ”

 

“ _I’m surprised she hasn’t tried to turn the court against me._ ”

 

“ _What good would that do her? No one at court trusts her: her dislike of you would only make more of Gondor’s courtiers like you._ ” Galadriel shook her head again, and the corners of her lips were turned downward. “ _No. If Princess Beruthiel moves against you, it won’t be through the court. You must be wary of her, ion nîn._ ”

 

“ _I am,_ ” Harry reassured her, before shaking his head. “ _But it was her father-in-law we were speaking of first. What would you have me do?_ ”

 

“ _Most of Gondor’s ships are fashioned in ship-building towns, which were built to make them. Pass through one of them on your next trip to visit Osgiliath. It will give you cause to ask after the expansions in the navy._ ”

“Be iest lîn,” Harry nodded. [As you wish.]

 

~ * **_Aegflobren, Gondor,_**

**_Lothron 17 th, 830 T.A. _*** ~

 

Harry took a deep breath, savoring the salty smell on the air. It wasn’t something he was at all used to, as Lothlórien and Imladris were nowhere near the sea, but it also wasn’t strange to him.

 

Though his memories of England were far fewer and farther back than any of his memories here on Arda, he still had them. And he’d seen the ocean a few times then, despite the Dursleys on more than a few occasions.

 

“That must be Aegflobren,” he said, scanning the town’s outskirt’s for the lookout. He spotted the man a second later, and wasn’t surprised to find him looking right back at him. It was the man’s job to look, after all. “It’s  bit bigger than I expected,” he commented to the twins.

 

As the town’s if Men went, this was almost a city sprawled upon the shore.

 

“ _Ye-Yes, my lord._ ”

 

Harry turned to face his long-time companion with a frown, not sure what to make of the strange tone in his voice, and even less sure of what to make of the matching expression both brothers’ were wearing. “ _Veryan? Voronwë? What’s wrong?_ ” he asked the worried question quietly, not wanting any of the nearby men to hear him speaking Elvish but too worried to try asking the same thing in the Common Tongue.

 

For a very long moment neither of his wife’s cousins answered him, and then they shook their heads at the same time.

 

“ _Nothing, my lord._ ” Voronwëreplied even as his brother answered more loudly.

 

“We’re fine, nothing to worry about, milord.”

 

Harry looked between the two, wondering why they’d be lying to him. Then he looked out in the direction they’d been staring with those strange looks on their faces, and the reason behind it all dawned as suddenly as another startling fact did with it.

 

The call of the sea.

 

The call to the West.

 

To Valinor and the Valar.

 

All Elves heard it: the moment they saw the sea.

 

He didn’t.

 

“ _We should complete our task, my lord,_ ” Veryan murmured, his voice whisper-soft and slightly reverent.

 

Harry swallowed, but then nodded, deliberately turning his horse towards the side of town they could see a ship being built on and urging it forward, really trying not to think about what he’d just realized.

 

But how could he not?

 

If he didn’t hear the call of the sea, did that mean he wasn’t being invited?

 

Was he too much like a Man, even though he was immortal here and bound by blood and magic to the Elves in both a familial adoption and marriage?

 

Would the land of the Valar be closed to him even after he saved his birth-world from Voldemort?

 

Was this a sign that he wouldn’t be able to return to Arda at all? Or if he did, he’d be trapped on the shores of Men even when the last Elves left?

 

“Can aye 'elp ye, milords?” a man voice’s startled him out of his troubled thoughts, and Harry quickly looked towards him: happy for any distraction. Though he was quite sure the man had been called out to meet them by the lookout that’d spotted them some time before. Small towns with any kind of value had procedures like this put in place by someone who knows what they’re doing.

 

“I hope so,” Harry offered as friendly a smile as he could manage with thoughts of an eventual eternity alone haunting him. “We were hoping to learn a little bit about boats?”

 

“Well, then, ye’ve come ta the right place,” the little man enthused, hopping down from the fence post he’d been sitting on to give them a wide grin that somehow looked friendly even with his many missing teeth. “Aegflobren’s all ‘bout boats—tha’s what’ we were built for, afta all!”

 

Harry hesitated for only a moment before following him: not because the friendly little man worried him at all, but because his mind didn’t want to accept what he’d just realized. Then he forced himself to focus all his attention on the mortal man that was so eager to help, desperate for anything else to think about. “This town is new?”

 

It wasn’t a question he really needed to ask: even if he wasn’t already aware of the fact, it was obvious if one took the time to look around. There wasn’t a rickety door or sagging roof to be seen. Every building here couldn’t be more than a few years old, if that: and that was only if it was already done. Dozens of buildings were somewhere in the process of being constructed, just like the ships their guide was leading them towards.

 

“Oh yeh, our good prince wan’s a navy built, so a boatbuildin’ towns the place ta be, ain’t it? Tha’s the thinkin’ that brought mosta us ‘ere.” The little man shot him yet another curious look. “Now, you in’rested in buildin’ boats or usin’ ‘em?”

 

“I’m sorry, I don’t believe I got your name?” Harry asked instead of answering right away, knowing that an introduction, though skipped here at first, could go a long way in obtaining trust.

 

“Name’s Leoft,” the man replied at once.

 

“I’m Haden, these are my cousins: Wyot, and Fidere,” Harry returned, before answering the Leoft’s earlier question with an unhelpful: “And we’re interested in both.”

 

The lack of answer didn’t seem to bother the man. “Alrigh’. Well, this yard ‘ere is where we build ‘em.” He gestured to the boats being built as he came to stop right along the edge of town. “Got four goin’ right now, tha’ ones almos’ ready.”

 

The one he pointed to did look nearly done, though it was a strange sight: to see a ship on land.

 

“And all of them are for the royal navy?” Harry asked, ignoring the disapproving—and more than a little disbelieving—look the query earned him.

 

“Well, course they are. Who else’s got the gold for this?”

 

That was actually a fair point, Harry supposed. Though the nobles of Gondor—and other realms—did _have_ money, investing it in an untried venture such as this: ships that’d be as likely to fall prey to pirates or weather as they were to make port, wasn’t likely just yet. Not until some greater successes were seen by them. The lords along the sea bought from the fishermen, and all those that lived by rivers made use of them, but what Gondor was starting to create here was something else entirely.

 

Which was why it had some Elves so worried.

 

Harry focused back on an earlier comment the man had made. “You say the prince is financing this, not the king?”

 

Leoft shrugged, “So’s said. And our good king’s ne’er shown much interes’ in the sea, save for makin’ tha’ deal wi’h the _rats_ for peace.”

 

He spat the last few words with all the ire of a man who’d long hated something—or someone.

 

Also not surprising, really. While some men might’ve come to these new towns for a job other than farming or something like that, the ones that’d be the most welcome here were those who already knew boats: if not how to build them, at least how to make use of them. In which case, he’d probably fallen prey to the pirates that supposedly weren’t supported by the ‘legitimate’ government of Umbar at some time.

 

“S’pose weh shouldna say ta much agains’ tha, though. Not the business of us common folk, eh? An’ et did make the coasts a bit more peaceful-like.” The man shrugged, before grinning widely as he nodded towards the water where a massive ship was anchored. “An’ we’ve ‘ad the time ta make these pretties: the sea rats don’ like the sight of ‘em, ta be sure.”

 

“I’m sure they don’t,” Harry nodded, glancing back at the brothers to see their reaction, and somehow not surprised to find neither one looking towards the ship on the sea. In fact, they were both very pointedly studying the shore with tight expressions: their necks tense as if to keep them from turning against their will. He swallowed before asking, “So how many ships can you construct here?”

 

“Depen’s on the weather, and ‘ow much wood we’ve available, really,” the man replied. “For big beauties like ‘er, ya need a good load of et.”

 

Harry nodded again. “I noticed the forest was rather thin near here.”

 

In fact, he didn’t think he’d seen a single tree that was more than a few years old within a day’s ride of the town. But there were hundreds of rotting stumps in the vicinity.

 

“Yeh, the prince made us stop cuttin’ ‘em down jus’ en time. All the cuttin’ was scarin’ off the huntin’, an it’s a long winter if ya can’t fish or hunt.” Leoft grimaced, shaking his head. “Wood’s brought en from more inland: sometimes even up the coast. Slows the work down, but canna do much ‘bout that, can we? Need it for everythin’ from the hull to the masts and the wheel.” He spread his hands. “And boats take time ta build anyway: there all a puzzle, really. And they need ta go together jus’ right, or they won’ take anyone anywhere.”

 

Harry smiled slightly as he heard the defensive edge to the man’s voice. He’d hidden his worry well till now, but where his mind had gone the second he’d seen their fine clothes was obvious. “You can relax, my friend. I’m not here on behalf of the prince.”

 

“No?” the man looked him up and down. “Then why are you here if not for our prince?”

 

“Curiosity,” Harry shrugged. “Nothing more. I…” he trailed off as the clanging of a loud bell broke through all the other sounds surrounding them, and everything but the pounding of the waves nearby fell silent.

 

He immediately scanned the surrounding area, and what he saw to the north made him stop and frown.

 

Smoke.

 

Purple smoke—though it was almost too dark to be called that.

 

A towering signal stretching into the sky for all of Gondor to see.

 

Their king was dead.

 

Another one of Turambar’s descendents gone.

 

This one long before his time…

 

But was it only Siriondil? And how had it happened?

 

“I must go,” Harry said in farewell to their short-time guide.

 

“Aye,” Leoft nodded, before intoning seriously: “Long live the Ship King.”

 

~ * **_Caras Galadhon, Lothlórien,_**

**_Lothron 17 th, 830 T.A. _*** ~

 

Harry hurried over to the bookcase again as the Mίriel twins stopped in the lounge to simply watch him take the special book out and being flipping through it to the most recent articles. Articles a great deal like the ones that’d led to his returning to the White City some short years before.

 

*

**_King Sirondil, son of Atanatar: DECEASED._ **

**_Lothron 17 th, 830 T.A._ **

**_Cause: Poison—Qualin Mórëungo._ **

**_*_ **

**_The Coronation of_ **

**_Tarannon, son of Sirondil_ **

**_Scheduled for Nórui 18 th, 830 T.A._ **

**_*_ **

 

“ _It’s true?_ ” Voronwë asked when Harry had obviously been silent, staring at the entry, too long.

 

The wizard nodded, grimacing as he explained, “ _Sirondil was poisoned with Qualin Mórëungo: or_ Faegraewen _, as Men call it._ ”

 

“ _Mórëungo? That’s from the south, isn’t it?_ ”

 

“ _Yes, it is,_ ” Ránewen answered for him from the doorway, startling all three warriors. “ _But the ladies of Gondor began using it cosmetically some time ago._ ”

 

Harry nodded, sighing resignedly. “ _And I’m sure Berúthiel has been using it for years. Which will render any shipment she’s received of it 'innocent.'_ ” He shook his head. “ _Not that the Court can openly accuse her anyway, without risking open war._ ”

 

“ _And it is slow acting,_ ” Ránewen interjected, setting down the basket she’d been carrying as she made her way over to him. “ _To evade food-tasters._ ”

 

“ _I’m sure Sirondil’s food-tasters are also dead and the tainted food was disposed of hours before any showed signs of ailing._ ” Harry agreed.

 

The best poisons for assassins to use worked in that way, of course, and Harry had studied the use of more than a few poisons back during Turambar’s War, when he’d been planning his own dabbles into assassination. It'd saved his old friend more than once; because there were spells that could detect such taints, and talismans that could ward them off. Had Turambar's descendent been wearing any one of his ancestor's weapons when poison past his lips, he might yet have lived. But Gondor was supposedly not at war, and the Atanatar hadn't wanted to give the impression that he might need to defend himself at any moment. He had guards for that. And, truth be told, Harry didn't even know if Turambar's children had kept any of the enchanted weapons; they may well have buried them with the king when he was entombed.

 

Berúthiel even had magic to help her, however little. And an obvious motive: if she wanted to be Queen of Gondor, her long-lived father-in-law had to die during her considerably shorter lifetime. Her husband had to sit on the throne before his time—something most of Gondor had hoped never to see, as the Black Numenor was hated even before she arrived garbed in black with tortured, enthralled cats.

 

But Qualin Mórëungo left only one post-mortem sign, and it wasn’t one the healers of Osgiliath would be adept at diagnosing. There were many things that could make a man suddenly suffocate, after all. And many of the poisons capable of that were far more commonly used in Gondor than the plant the commoners called Beastsbane.

 

“I think it past time we returned to Gondor’s capital, my love,” Ránewen murmured, her use of the common tongue and the small, sad smile she gave him a clear sign of her support.

 

“Yes,” Harry agreed. “I think it is.”

 

Time to see if Tarannon, son of Sirondil, was as much like Turambar as Harry had first thought some short years ago.

 

~ * **_Osgiliath, Gondor,_**

**_Nórui 18 th, 830 T.A. _*** ~

****

Harry bowed as deeply as his upbringing would allow him as the new king of Gondor approached him with a wide smile. “Hail Tarannon Falastur, King of Gondor.”

 

“Thank you, my friend,” Tarannon replied, while turning to Ránewen in her new mortal guise. “And Lady Adelais, as well. A pleasure as always.”

 

“It is always an honor, your Majesty,” Ránewen replied with a graceful curtsy and a sad smile. “Though my heart is saddened by the occasion.”

 

“As is mine,” Tarannon sighed, before bending over Ránewen’s hand. “But the presence of friends does ease the pain. As much as it can be eased.”

 

“May I ask—”

 

“Who killed the king? My father…” the new King of Gondor drew in a deep breath. “I do not know. Whoever it was has a deft hand. The healers can tell me nothing.” He shook his head. “Most would lay blame on my wife, but Berúthiel has lived here in Osgiliath for nearly the entirety of our marriage.”

 

“While you have lived in Pelargir,” Harry replied.

 

“For the most part, yes,” Tarannon agreed, looking towards the west as if he could see the shores under the cliffs of his long favored home. “I shall miss the sound of the sea.”

 

“You could live there still,” Harry pointed out. “The court would follow you, even more than they did already.”

 

“Of course they would, but long-time inhabitation by the court would wound the seaside, I think.” The King grimaced. “And Berúthiel hates it, strange as that sounds for a woman that came from Umbar.”

 

“Was that why you chose the name Falastur?” Ránewen asked him, her sweet voice matching her curious expression perfectly on the face Harry still barely recognized when he wasn’t looking through his own spell.

 

“No, it was not.”

 

“May we ask why you would call yourself 'Lord of the Coasts?'” Harry asked, one eyebrow arched as he pointed out. “It seems a bit at odds with your father’s choice of a bride for you.”

 

“I have made no effort to hide my own ambitions,” Tarannon replied, crossing his arms. “Neither before, nor after my so-called marriage. And I don’t intend to start now.”

 

“The royal navy, you mean,” Harry nodded. “I was in Aegflobren when I saw the smoke. A little town south of—”

 

“I know it,” Tarannon interrupted with a small smile. “I know all the shipbuilding towns.”

 

Harry nodded, “They were calling you the Ship-King there before I’d left.”

 

“Hum, were they?” the King grinned, “My in-laws won’t like that, but I won’t deny my desire to see Gondor secure from coastal threats. It’s past time we stopped depending on the Elves, who’ve long left us.”

 

Harry blinked at that. “The Elven realms still—”

 

“Still stand, I know,” Tarannon cut him off. “But their people were taking boats westward before Gondor’s name was on any map. Eventually, they will cease to exist alongside us, and battling the dark forces will be our responsibility alone. I would see mankind ready for that.” He shook his head, blinking at Ránewen then as if only just remembering she was there. “My apologies, Lady Adelais, I do not mean to frighten you.”

 

“Words will not make me wilt, good king,” Ránewen reassured him with a kind smile, before curtsying again. “But I can see you have much to speak of, and I should be overseeing the servants at our house, I think.”

 

“Your house?” Tarannon repeated, looking between the two of them with something between relief and eagerness in his eyes.

 

“Yes,” Harry told him. “We’d thought we’d spend a few years here in the White City if your Majesty does not mind?”

 

“Mind?” Tarannon laughed, looking like a great weight had been lifted off his chest. “Not at all. This is wonderful news! You have been most missed here, my friends. I will be glad to have you here.”

 

“The queen won’t,” Harry pointed out softly, and the king grimaced.

 

“Perhaps not, but there are few people Berúthiel actually likes. If any. There are times I’m sure she hates me as much as she does those cats that used to hang onto her skirts,” He shook his head, before frowning at Ránewen. “Let me call some of the guards to escort you home, milady—”

 

“That really isn’t necess—”

 

“I insist, my lady.” Tarannon cut her off, his voice firm. “There are many more people in the city than usual, and even on the best of days a lady might not be safe unaccompanied.” He turned to gesture two one of the guardsmen that was standing just a few steps down the hall. “Guardsman.”

 

The heavily armored man was quick to hurry over, even as his steps echoed clankily in the stone halls of the White Tower. “Yer Majesty?” he inquired as he bowed, almost falling over with the motion.

 

“Your name, Guardsman?”

 

“Dur-Durward, Your-Your Majesty,” the guard replied, his stutter making him sound even younger then he already was. But then almost all Men always seemed young to Harry these days.

 

“Well, Durward,” Tarannon replied easily, a little bit of amusement in his eyes. “I’m entrusting you—and a fellow guardsman of your choice—with seeing Lady Adelais safely home. Think you can handle that, lad?”

 

“Ye-Yes, sir, only…” he looked nervously between the king and the Harry. “I-I c-can’t ride, sir, that’s why I’m—”

 

“Well, your captain will have to fix that,” Tarannon cut him off. “But not today. Her home is here in the city, lad.”

 

“Oh! Ye-Yes, of-of course, Yer Majesty.”

 

Ránewen giggled softly, giving the blushing youth a small smile when he looked at her. “I appreciate your concern, Your Majesty,” she said to Tarannon as she looked back at him. “By your leave?”

 

“Of course, and a good day to you, my lady,” Tarannon nodded, watching her lead the nervous guard away. He turned back to Harry after the pair had rounded the corner. “You’re a very lucky man, my friend.”

 

“I know it,” Harry agreed, before asking, “You were saying something about readying Gondor? Readying it for what? Your marriage has mostly pacified the men to the South, has it not?”

 

“For now,” Tarannon nodded, his expression darkening. “I’m sure that, too will change with time. But I speak of much greater threats than mere pirates.”

 

Harry raised an eyebrow at him, waiting for him to go on.

 

“You’re a well educated man, Sir Haden. I’m sure you know the tales of old.” Gondor’s new king turned began leading his down the hall of his home again. “About the Alliance of Men and Elves, who battled the forces of Mordor. About my ancestor, who cut the One Ring from Sauron’s hand, and then refused to destroy it, only to lose it in the wild some years later.” He shook his head. “Many Men have forgotten, but my family has not.”

 

Harry nodded slowly. “I know the tales, of course, but what does your Royal Navy have to do with Mordor and Sauron?”

 

“The coasts were hit hard by the pirates loyal to Mordor back then. And whatever my wife may say, her people still worship his memory. When the One Ring finds its way back to him, Gondor will be at his—and their—mercy yet again.” Tarannon shook his head. “My great-grandfather made our armies strong on land, but upon the sea we are still weak. I will remedy that.”

 

Harry nodded again, before asking seriously. “How shall I help?”

 

The new king smiled.

 

 

**_End of_ ** **_Call of the Sea & the Ship Kings – Part 1._ **

> __**Translations:** (even though I included most within the chapter itself)  
> (1) Wilhofaire = The Elves name for Voldemort.   
> It means the same thing as Voldemort. Wil = Fly, Ho = From, and Faire = Natural Death (though I admit, I did blink when I found that last one in The Dragon's Inn's English to Elvish dictionary).   
> Rowling had Voldemort 'create,' which means 'flight from death' in French. Personally, I think she probably created the name Voldemort first and then figured out what normal names she could get out of it and that's why he ended up with the middle name Morvolo, but with some of the other names in the Wizarding World it didn't sound half-bad.   
> Even before we heard the name first mentioned, by Robbie Coltrane (Hagrid) in the first movie, 'Voldemort' sounded creepy. Maybe because of the excellent indirect direction the whole book gave him, maybe because of 'death' being a literal part of his name.   
> In 2006, Rowling said in an interview that "Voldemort's fear is death, ignominious death...he regards death itself as ignominious. He thinks that it's a shameful human weakness, you know. His worst fear is death." Well, anyone who'd read past the first book could've told you that, as it literally defines his character. The whole "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named" thing develops it a bit more, lending him notable infamy, and his disregard for anyone else's well-being is almost a go-to for a truly evil villain. But even before the series clearly explained the Horcruxes, as early as the first book, really, I thought the similarity to Tolkien's Sauron was obvious. Then in the second book it just kind of slapped you in the face. Harry, and by extension his Elven family, have now had a really long, long time to contemplate Voldemort and his actions, and they'll have longer still, but this had to have occurred to some of them. So it was mentioned (or thought about a little) in this chapter.   
> Thus, even if a French dictionary didn't come along with the Hogwarts-library-book that the Valar made sure came with him, I don't think it's too far off base for the Elves to give him a name that means basically the same thing. Not when reading into any Elven names basically shows you that Tolkien was very literal with just about everyone - their name either literally describing what they look like or what their role in the story (or past stories) is on more than a few occasions.  
> .... And yes, the introduction of the Valar having had a hand in Harry coming to Middle Earth was partially in response to the more discerning reviewers who demanded to know how and why Hermione would ever send such a book to Harry, even if she could get one herself. But, it also just makes sense to me....Next.  
> (2) “Cormamin niuve tenna’ ta elea lle au’, dan quel fara.” -  
> Galadriel's farewell means: "My heart shall weep until it sees thee again, but happy hunting." Formal, pretty & appropriate for Galadriel.  
>  _(3) “Be iest lîn,” - for anyone that doesn't remember or didn't read the subtitles in Fellowship of the Ring, that means: "As you wish."_
> 
>  
> 
> Notes from within chapter:  
> [1] Buffo Borfin is an ancestor of Bilbo and Frodo. I wanted to make him a Baggins specifically, but the ‘first recorded Baggins’ in Hobbiton was Balbo Baggins, who was born in 2767 and died in 2863… I’ve already played with a bunch of Middle Earth’s timeline: the Shire technically wasn’t founded till centuries after I wanted there, so I fudged it. But I thought playing with the specific characters too much might be pushing it a little. Thus, I went looking further back in Bilbo and Frodo’s ancestry, and Buffo Borfin was at the top, with no dates. Therefore, he’s the one that I decided to use. Hope that doesn’t confuse anyone too much.   
> [2] According to the list of the kings of Arnor on WIKIPEDIA, Elendur was the second-to-last King Arnor, having ascended the throne (at 100 years old) after his father, Valandur, was killed in 652. He would rule till 777, and his son would be the last king of the united Arnor, because his three grandsons would divided the kingdom between themselves to avoid civil war, the realm thereafter becoming: Arthedain, Cardolan and Rhudaur. The hobbits of the Shire settled that land with the permission of the king of Arnor—though in the canon it was much later than I’ve made it in my story. By 670 TA they would have been there—but I wanted them earlier, so they were. Anyway, the hobbits were subjects of the sovereigns of Arnor from that point on. In theory, this meant the crown protected them and could level a draft on them in times of war (etc.), but for the most part it probably meant that they just paid taxes (probably in the form of crops) every year. In 861, King Eärendur died and his sons divided the realm betwixt themselves, at which point the Shire became part of Arthedain—I think… and much more happened after that, but I haven't decided how much of this I'll actually go into in the story, and we're not quite to some of it, so I won’t go on…  
> Anyway, the Shire is supposed to be representative of ‘merry old England’—according to Tolkien, which I thought would really appeal to Harry after years away at war. For a time, at least. Also because he was sick of the elves concerned coddling AND because it was a ‘mortal’ land that both allowed Turambar access to him, and prevented it because it wasn’t part of Turambar’s lands. So he spent some time there...  
> [3] Yes, Atanatar died from a stroke. Why? Because it was the first fatal thing I could think of that might come out of nowhere. Is this canon? Since I thought of it, obviously no. Actually, I haven’t found the exact ‘how’ most of Tolkien characters died—when their deaths were mentioned. He apparently wasn’t big on that. And it wasn’t important here. How does the book know Atanatar died from a stroke? Because Celeborn's a runes-genius, and it’s magic! And unimportant. But, in case anyone was wondering: no, the elves don’t perform brain surgery of any kind. This whole aspect of the scene was pretty much magic-dependent…

**Author's Note:**

> Author's End Note: Hope you enjoyed this one, and even though it may be a while to the next one either way, I'd love to hear from you about this chapter, what you think is coming, what's happened in earlier chapters, whatever. So, PLEASE REVIEW!   
> Believe it or not, some of your reviews were what kept bringing me back to this story even when one of my writers block seemed to have taken the place of my brain concerning this story.   
> The problem with having a story that takes place over such a long stretch of time really is that you may end up with many, many more scenes of what's happening a long ways in the future rather than the part you're trying to write. But I'm not going to make the mistake of skipping everything again, so I'm afraid you'll have to wait longer than I'd like between updates. But REVEIWS really do help!   
> For example, the next two chapters are obviously going to take place at sea. But my mental image of that is mostly from the first Pirates of the Caribbean, which this is NOT going to crossover with. So, it would also help if anyone who reads/watches a lot books/movies/television involving sailing (circa the mid-1700s) might give me pointers? Whether it's towards something that's really worth watching/reading or just suggestions. Because obvious the next part of Harry's life on Middle Earth is going to be at sea. And because I don't want all of Turambar's descendents that Harry meets to be carbon-copies of him, but at the moment Tarannon almost is because I can't get Captain Jack Sparrow out of my head when I'm writing him, but a pirate captain isn't a great base for any of the Kings of Gondor that'll be spending most of their lives at sea, so I keep having to go back to flatten him out again. I wanted to base him more off of Will Turner (and I know the Legolas thing makes that weird), but I obviously love Jack Sparrow too much because he keeps popping into my head instead. Anyway, the next two chapters might come out a lot faster if I get some good suggestions.  
> So PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE REVIEW!  
> Bye for now!  
> ~ Jess S


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